Apollo, Hear Me.

I stand before you,

farmers kin,

my mother’s green thumbed girl.

asking only,

for a gentle kiss

to cheek.

I’d fly to you–

by wing or wind,

simply for a glimpse.

I have nothing to offer

but the dirt bedded under overgrown nails.

And a vulgar honesty.

Words by Bea Butterworth, she/they