Resistance

I must be the heavy globe

of hydrangea, always bowing

by summer’s end. Must be salt,

like sadness at a burning city,

an ethical disobedience. I must be

a violet thorn of fire. These days

I don’t taste good, but I must

be singing and boneless, a lily.

I must beg for it, eyes flashing

silver as a fish. Must be a rosary

of listening. This is how I know

to love. I must hide under desks

when the forecast reads: leaves red

as meat, sleeping lions, chandelier

of bone, moon smooth as a worry

stone. I must want my life and fear

the thin justice of grass. Clouds

hunt, wound the rising tide. I must

be paradised. On my knees again.