Gracie Jones

Candy floss flowers hang from his branch,

dropping his sweetness on the heads

of bystanders, passersby.

They pause under his sugared shade,

petals, leaves, protecting their skin

from the heat above.

When we’re alone, his arms fight mine

for the light, for the water.

His roots dig deeper, body taller.

My green turns bronze, detaches

from my stem, stripping me of my clothes,

rotting my roots.

Still, they admire his blush crown—

while I, beneath,

starved of my colours.

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