Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...


Laura Seymour


I have left Violet
to do the washing up.

I worry she has let the cutlery into her throat,
only just, it seems, rough with solid food.

Her stomach, a ruby-stricken mine
cannot unlearn squeezing against

steak knives. So trusting,
she swallows anything. I imagine

her colon caresses all our missing jewels:
her first earrings, commas giving her pause,

two entangled mirrors spawning
each others’ faces, their stings

poised at each other. Ancestral cameos
roll inside her: she strokes

the ridges of detail
in faces she never knew.

She is an ancient grizzly plant, her
tendrils growing around knives and forks.


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