Fireweed

When you learned that nectar
meant eternal life,
you ripped out all the roots
from our flower bed,
mutilated as much
floral tissue
as you could fondle,
giddy from sugary drips.

Oh, you’re a real
perverted pollinator.
Seizing firm, floral cups.
Brushing yourself against
moist, reproductive organs.
Self-righteous sucrose addict,
guilty glucose glutton,
phytochemical freak.

What sap makes men immortal?
Your dirt-stained fingers
glide down my ultraviolet
hidden honeyguides
in search of one last drop
of something sacred.
A subtle scent or risky resin
absconded from my axil.

Whether you’re a breeder
or powerful predator,
I can’t yet decide.
I’m just a red bush
of rhododendron,
lethal to all animals
brazen enough to try
and lay hold of my
heavenly food.