They seem to be gliding toward me, in dresses,
they float and turn, in summer floral, the
ladies of the fruit trees, in ruffles, in dishevel,
they are like the prettiest mother in the class.
And every bouquet on their batiste is like a
nipple, a puckered ruby, asking
for the pierce kiss. My mother seemed 
to long to be dandled, she seemed terminally hungry. 
Held close against her body, I was
pressed into human anguish, its blooms
and prickles and raking thorns and hazy
generalized wounders, pressed into the service 
of her grieving orchards. Now, when I see
a blossom tree, I want to match
my apple or witch-hazel arms to it,
I want to be 
the blossom tree,
as I wanted to be my mother, throw my little
spirit into her, to ease
the sorrow of her matter. And there were her breasts,