Sweet Weed

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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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34 Comments on “Sweet Weed

  1. Your poem is so beautiful.
    ” Now, In the compost bin, I spoke babble”
    ” The creation of love, ( This is not falling in love)
    Planted, Watered, Groomed, Nameless.”

    If I could write like this…

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Reblogged this on On The Verge and commented:
    ” The creation of love, ( This is not falling in love)
    Planted, Watered, Groomed, Nameless.”

    Who needs fireworks when you have this to read.
    Visceral. Instinctual…sparks.

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Wow. The way you described their intercourse…was so beautifully veiled. The Indirect descriptions “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” made it just that much more appeasing and provocative because it was Not blunt. If only I could conjure up something so Lovely. Thanks so much for sharing.

    Liked by 2 people

  4. Reblogged this on Mairu_Mayu's Blog and commented:
    Read this and be amazed. This poet has entered into a realm I have not yet gained access to. Her word’s beauty are that of a daffodil’s. Each stanza a new petal falls to the ground. By the time you reach the end, you see a portrait of fallen petals….Nothing less than an imprint of pure poetry.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Ellen: another beautiful poem, hoping you will be published one day (I’m old school needing to see things in book form). Make sure you invite me to the book signing party!!

    Like

  6. I’m a month or two away from having at least one book available. You will notice some changes to the blog during that time. I’ll let you know. Thanks.

    Liked by 2 people

  7. So incredibly sensual, and felt-through, beautiful writing!!
    I liked it all, but the lines that stuck with me was
    “From their throats, drones like bees
    Sing and dance, play above the grass
    Where they fly directionless”
    Great work.

    Like

  8. sorry of I am a bit thick
    is this love between two women?
    who then has the seeds?
    or are they metaphor?
    congrats for the courage .
    can’t relate .age for me is denial.
    when I look in the mirror I see six years old or maximum ten.
    but I have heard age is a concrete comcept sometimes

    Liked by 1 person

  9. good answer
    I guess different strokes for different folks.
    personally can not see the attraction.
    maybe prefer parts I dont have and maybe I am just not really into self discovery that much .or denial?

    Liked by 1 person

  10. The imagery here is astonishing. To it simply vivid would do it a grand injustice. I loved every moment of it.

    Liked by 1 person

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