The first thorn grows from my collarbone
in a little green knife
of surprise.
I pull away my fingertip
with a garnet bead,
then touch it to my withering tongue.
One by one,
thorns emerge from elbow, ankle,
knees and tender spine,
then obscure my face in the startled mirror.
The thorns ward off the world,
leaving me only silence,
leaving me tracing their glistening points
with my cactus thumb,
enchanted.

How I bristle with bright barbs,
a magnificent, quilled creature,
as I walk alone through the garden.
In a halo of pollen,
I trail my arms like vines along the brittle lawn.
When I stop in the shade of a maple,
my toes sprout opalescent roots.
My arms coil around its trunk,
around myself,
in circle after circle,
until I am sealed in a cocoon
studded with emerald spikes.
Twisted in my own embrace,
I feel the humid breeze
knot my hair to the empty branches.
My heart constricts,
shielding its lavender orchid
from the June heat.
Thirsty,
I dream of your hands,
of your cool fingers
of silver rain.