Buttercup Road
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
When you go out you see.
The world opens a little more
With every turn of your gaze.
Yesterday, I walked the stretch of sidewalk
I call, Buttercup Road. It’s lined with buttercups on both sides,
And if that doesn’t sting you with joy
Check your pulse.
I bent down to look more
Closely, each and every buttercup
Trembled with glee at the release of being seen—
Of little, old me witnessing their golden,
Shiny faces; of me getting close enough
I could have kissed them, petal by petal—I could have—
But didn’t. I kissed them instead with praise and adoration,
And their hands opened wider for more.
That evening, I went back to visit them.
The sun was setting, the sky a splendid swirl
Of the transgender flag, and there they were—
Their faces cloaked in prayer, their hands cupping
The sun inside, their lips parted, touched
With moonlight all night long, I said to them:
“You dear, little lockets of honey, you holy, little chalices of sweetness,
I realize you are not here for me, you are here, like me,
For the sun; thank you for drawing my footsteps
Closer to the light.”
