the jester

I don't understand your riddles
or why your laugh sounds like death
I just don't understand
I just don't understand.

I don't know why you grow thorns in your garden
and snip off all the budding roses with rusted shears,
or why you like to give broken glass prisms
instead of rainbow-colored scarves
with lucid beads interwoven.

I was stifled,
surrounded by you:
you, crushing silver-sequined skirts stained with burgundy,
your wine-drenched breath filtering slowly into my mouth
and
"why?"
was all
I
could
ask.

and I just don't know
I don't know why you give me thorns--

I asked for bouquets of roses,
not blood.

and I just don't understand your riddles
or why your laugh sounds like death
I just don't understand
I just don't understand.