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


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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