Milk Thistle

Maddie Dolan

Marveling at their

mohawks in full bloom

a fuzzy, purple electric shock blaze

standing at attention

Tall, lean

Sprouting taller than she —

“Don’t touch them!”

but... mesmerized,

deceived!

by the peach fuzz, falsely soft,

visible through wells of pain pulsating from tiny fingertips.

“Noxious!”

yet little hands reaching for the silent screams in bloom, again.

“Weeds! Bad weeds!”

Bad.

Nearby dumpster rot,

button-nose crunching stink,

and a hot hiss — coiling, certain

hitting-slapping-pulling at stem-slim wrists

yet the flowers did not bow.

The flowers did not bow.

Steadfast.

Rising from unnurtured gravel

with a vibrant crown

shimmering through red dust hanging in the air.

She bloomed, too, with spines of her own.