A Field of Sunflowers

Sunflowers
are the most grotesque of all fruit.
They stare into me
as if I were looking down the gullet
of a squawking bird
with an open beak;
enraged,
vocal chords removed.

They are spindly,
hulking old men,
shaming with judiciary stiffness.
Their silent verdict of me
stitches
like a deep stab to the chest
with a rubber knife.