all the landscapers i know like men—plant parts of themselves into the lawns of lovers unattempted. leave bits of body to fertilize fields of flowers: tongues to topsoil, backs bare-ground bared to seed, their bones spent tilling another man’s soil. devil’s trumpets sound through beefy bantam men who live to be under another man’s earthiness—they are daturas. i discover their blooms under the full moon, dangerous as it may be. i disturb their roots, toeing the line between foundation and found—between my safety and their acceptance. i hold flower petals in my mouth. nightshades: a silent tongue.