the Field is full of creamy corn-yellow
buttercups budding, their bell-shaped heads
glow as if they are wearing halos,
they are simply divine.
when i was little she would pull the flower
out by the roots, ask do you like butter?
hold it up to my chin, let’s find out
sure, enough, the buttercup would glow
we’d play patty-cake with our palms
& swing for hours in her backyard
kicking our legs to the sun
as we dreamed of Fairy tale princes
rescuing us from our dragons.
now we drink our lemonades with vodka,
smoke star-shaped grass, giggle at
the trio of cow portraits
all painted with doe-eyed expressions.
her fridge says ‘you are a dog face bitch’
in a sentence made of magnets
& our playgrounds are abandoned
parking garages. but i still remember
placing broken buttercups to my ear
to see if i could hear the whirring
of butter being churned.