invitation from a dried thistle

prickly stem–

a minor repellent
that would never stop

the most determined,

like parental threats

dried and delicate–
but not yet ready
to be dead,

like the paper-thin shell
of what used to be

your mother-in-law,
who still has enough barbs

remaining to hurt you

in many small ways

the rattling of seeds in the pod–

keep time to the breath of

fluid-filled lungs

you are invited to play a game–

she loves me
she loves me not.

but where will it end
if the answer is both?

and now you only want to write
about your bread and coffee

and about how it crunches and chews
but mostly how it fills
the places only gluten and caffeine
and love can fill.