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

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Laura Seymour

 

Violet

 

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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