I remember the next-door-neighbour-boy
(not sure which one)
Telling me
That the milky whiteness dripping from the stem
Of the dandelion he’d given me
Was how it made baby dandelions
And that it was poisonous to the touch.

I dropped the flower, and he picked it up and handed it back to me.
It was a gift after all.

Now, I think he had confused what he knew
About pollen and nettles,
Dandelions and sticky willies.

I left the flower on the doorstep
still;
I wasn’t ready to be made dead or a mother.