On a triangular traffic island,
a patch of dandelion orbs glows,
neo-moons to a streetlight and a gas-station’s neon.
Inside each sphere, along the inner fringe of the outer shell
hues shift with each yellow, red, and green traffic signal.
Then, poof! The seedheads disintegrate,
taking flight on a truck-made wind.
She gave him a cup of tea, brought it to where he was sitting,
where he had been waiting, where he had long since given up
the hope of healing
this disease of the liver, that led to more sitting,
that led to giving up more hope, that led to more sitting.
Putrefying.
He didn’t really hate dandelions.
He hated them for his neighbors hating them.
Sometimes still, hidden from adult view,
he loved them like a seven-year-old,
secretly blew at least one a year—
on a spring morning dedicated
to digging them out of his lawn by the roots
and hating them—
no one looking.
He hated his neighbors for hating them, hated them,
digging.
A limp pile would grow in the sun.
Some would turn to seed even while their roots dried in the air,
while he spread deadly chemicals across his children’s play yard,
where they would roll with puppies.
He had seen many doctors, taken many chemical medicines himself.
Then she made him this bitter tea,
‘neo-atomic neo-moon tea’ she called it,
and he drank it warm.
He began to heal.
His true medicine had planted itself in his own front yard;
resisted all efforts at eradication;
in fact, he had planted it himself.
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