Sweet Weed



The flesh of my lover’s body

Still taut within memory’s touch

That distance shaped my femininity

Her sweet, sweet, large lips, appeared

As a succulent rooted plant

Which allowed me into her meadow

To traverse the yard, to stretch within the clover

Tasting her dandelion, a wine, sweet weed,

The fuzz of her stalk still stuck to my tongue

I was loved for gathering the morning dew

Loose in her garden, leaning with the spin of Earth

I couldn’t stop growing. This she knew.

but now, cut clean as a thistle, a ragwort

Decayed, clipped, mowed down to a level field—

Away from dirt, my girlhood crumbled into dirt clods.

The color of my blossom strained a shady purple

The spiny leaves of my effort condemned me

Now, In the compost bin, I spoke babble 

To ivy, buttercups, and sore, sore sorrels

Who claimed they were willing to stay

Upon dirt, clay and crust, providing, promising

The creation of love, (This is not falling in love)

Planted, Watered, Groomed, Nameless.

Lost is…

Her name, unmentionable, our relationship, banished

As I dried to my death, breasts sagging, she pushed

Beyond my twine, into the moist regions, luring my bite

Until my teeth became mush, I managed a mangled smile

In between old lipstick, gloss, and caked on rouge

Settled within the ridges of my wrinkles

My seeds, vanished, blown away by present breaths

My memory is a vine, wrapping itself

Around thoughts, perspectives, emotions

How my tears are hotter than I remember

Her yellowed flower, a faint scent of sex

Stuck on the end of my eternal nose

Unfortunately applied to the middle of my face


The book of my fall, recited by my children

From their throats, drones like bees

Sing and dance, play above the grass

Where they fly directionless

This is of no surprise, for

I never taught them where to find the blooms

How one comes to a flower

How one talks to a flower

How one becomes a flower

Why someone would want to become a flower


When she sees me, she bends the branches backwards in anger




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