as a babe swaddled in her rose
cotton blanket. Covered as the tables filled with
blooms in a wedding banquet. Wrapped in
the love sauce as a beef burrito, I, a tiny starving

bambino. Wrapped like a caterpillar
in her cocoon under the glow of a midnight
moon. But tight in that stance/not emerging
as a violet butterfly spry and ready for

the dance. Wrapped up like the birthday
presents in bows, glitter, and satin ribbons. And losing
my head as the chickens stuffed and pushed
in the oven. It wasn’t at all becoming.