by Erika Mueller
All I wanted then was to fill my arms with sharp flowers.
– Eavan Boland, “White Hawthorn in the West of Ireland”
It was sometimes light and silent
ones who filled me like poison
wood, or Christmas rose. Their
choke juice like an even tempo.
Others crept in, their thistle jaws
like live wires at my throat, my body,
and their delight of undoing me. Continue reading