A Taste for the Special

     My red upper lip stands me apart. We are all rooted in the same soil but they push me away in the wind.

     My mate once brushed up against me. ‘Twas the lower lip red on that one. The One who completed me cut away for a girl’s pleasure.

     Side by side we stood, flexing but not falling. Now One is in front of her. No, by now the irreplaceable has been thrown into the dirt to rot into a meal for those of one color. Or does the grave lie apart?

     Yes, it must lie apart like two red lips smiling.

     Flowers are not human. But I sense the tup-tup-tup of her gleeful approach. Back to cut me away and watch me wither.

     To be discarded with my beloved Other? Our together graves apart from the one-colors?

     The girl recognizes our specialness. She has taste.

     Is that boiling water I sense?

     Yes. The girl has taste.