Gardener

I'll cut this grapevine growing on me,
strangling my existence for
poise and society.
I'll pluck the twigs that were
trapped in my locks
while lying on the grass,
kissing my lover who left.
I'll break the thorns that crave me,
only to prick when are denied
the loan of my love.
I'll make a garland from the flowers
of a cactus I lived and loved,
that I shall wear
on my curvy waist flaunting
my flabby navel.
I'll nourish the weed growing in my tresses,
for nothing is expected of them,
for they're destined to be a mess.
I'll grow lilies in my hand, and give them away
to little girls,
not as souvenirs from a free woman,
but as seeds that open a fire of free will.

- Swarup