Laurel Hell, 1780
(Kalmia latifolia)
It isn’t a circle. It’s a river,
and we walk the water, hemmed
on both sides by tangles,
hard wood woven,
keeping us on this path.
Our skin shines.
We crown each other,
lost laureates, reading
through a miasma,
choking on the lines.
The walls are watching,
strange and vegetative,
antennae springing back
from our touch, bloodshot
eyes open wider.
We walk, humid miles,
wet circles. Wives
across the ocean, children
we may never see again,
cottages, walled gardens,
a thousand small balloons
lifting away...
Poke Salad
(Phytolacca americana)
Annie stirred the greens,
pot a weathered helmet, silver
where her fingers shined it clean.
How fast the root grew,
thick as a fist in one season,
seeds sprinkled by the birds,
cells sprinkled in the belly.
How fast the cancer grew,
slender as a finger when she knew.
Strain the sallet, toss the water.
Boil again. Write your name
in disappearing ink.
it's over
eaten away by fire
burnt off and blackened on the ends
I
followed
the path of rain
spoke
so simple
a
curse.
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