our story

is to always be torn apart

you take the best parts with you

I don’t mind

missing, waiting, wanting–

it’s a good thing

Stems reach up

Like a witch’s broom,

Grow hair

Like a witch’s chin:

Hair, scutch, twitch,

quake, cough grass.

In June, I picked a blade

Swished it under your chin—

Tickle grass,

Soft as skin.

Soon after,

Its bristly panicle:

Brittle branches

Easily broken,

Carrying weed seed,

Devil’s grass,

Thousands of acres,

Thousands of miles—

As far as the devil.

Tumble and panic grass

Flitters and flies

To where you are,

To where I am,

Through my gates,

Through my walls,

Witch

Grass.

What is weed,

What is not weed,

One word.