09

[horsesonthelawn]

Drip. Drip.

those stripped
twigs of her fingers.
Ivy torsions in the wrist.

Two spikes bandaged
to drip in her veins.

Sap sunk
at fifteen , she's been old
for too long , always cold
in her matt blacks , always
in some sort of mourning.

Mulched like leafmould,
mushroom-breathed , shit-smelling,
she's a question: Can
you love this?
Can you sit

and watch the hours dissolving
in the drip
of Parvolax and glucose
clear as rinsings from bare twig tips
when the downpour's gone?

They're trying to wash the river
in her blood. They're on the phone
to the Poisons Unit:
the readings aren't clear.
Nothings perfect

but that's all there is.
This. Now. The drip
of plain words. Yes.
Love.
This.