The girl with crooked braids
snacks on nasturtiums
from a plastic bag: brick-
red, gold, funneling nectar
from her green-lacquered
nails into her rosy throat.
Other arrogant, pretty
children run past her to the hex
jars of lavender honey
or curly piles of Russian kale.
All are safe enough
to trust the long-haired vendors
when they offer fistfuls
of peppery blossom, to chew
with spotless fluoride-
armored teeth, to bruise
and grind those petals
into nutrients. The girl
whose thick soft hair
slips like outrage
from its bindings cries
that piano practice is hard
that someone won’t be her friend
that the sun is growing hot
and I want to shout
at her and to feed her
more piano, more flowers
