Patrick Dundon
You are whipping me
in a greenhouse. At first,
I like the sting of the white
plastic against my thigh. When
I try to strike you back with
my bare hand, you hold
a potted plant against your
chest, one with a delicate stem
I'm afraid to break. My phone
vibrates next to the hose.
It's my mom calling, but
I can't reach it. You answer
against my will. No, you tell her,
Patrick can't come home.