sprout from the blood of Cain,
coil hooked vines around verdant
trunks, green stalks, skirt
extraction with leaves that mimic
indigene.
The weeds of Eden talk secession,
sanctimony, hijack water
with tapping tendrils,
are impervious
to fertilizers designed
to weed out hatred
of vegetable neighbors.
The weeds of Eden are naked
and have no shame,
look upon the wilt of death
and laugh, are pliable,
brittle, savage,
a syrupy sick.
See how the gardener weeps,
returns to the shade with a book
when he cannot distinguish
choice crop
from counterfeit.
Editor’s note: this is the second of three poems. The final installment will be published next week.
After moving to the PNW, I was beyond excited to pick wild blackberries on my walks. Then, I finally started noticing (and feeling) how terrible their thorns are, and how impossible they are to banish. Apparently, blackberries are not native to the Northwest. I’ve been trying to find a way to articulate the sadness of seeing blackberries tackling the more peaceful plants of the region, and now I have a whole poem. Thank you.
Mercy. God save us from our hatred. Thank you for this.
[…] Editor’s Note: The is the final poem of a brief series. For earlier installments, click here and here. […]