I Want the Sunflowers, My Hair Messy Like their Hair

I Want the Sunflowers, My Hair Messy Like their Hair,

the past-due raggedness of rays. I want, like my son,
the milk when the milk's in my hand, mama when mama's

beside him, willing his aching to stop. I don't know
what I want, but I like the sway of construction

paper dinosaurs hanging from the ceiling:
Don't take those.

Martha Silano