Unfit for foxglove
Good morning, will you accept this part of me, learn about the decay in my heart and decide it doesn’t matter, accept I broke a headlight with a bat and not ask whether it was speed or body or wood—whose?—know it doesn’t matter, are you coming over later, are you bringing bags of bees and duck feathers, leave atropine at the door, beautiful belladonna, the music box which hums, does history like mine turn deadly or bread seed beneath the pale pink moon, most of this happened near the blue lagoon, accept I have to rewrite my history with nature, I might have stolen pumpkins and sage but things are different now, my kidney is alive again, but will you care about me open and honest, in the mint ritual space where being gets caught in webs and muscles, it’s not enough to care when you’re fatigued, promise me peace, record my headaches and wounds in a leather book laugh at my insomnia, burn the rosemary and the tangerine peels, who needs elements anymore, wear your best cloak, bring your frost and your maybe face, do what you must but please don’t leave me alone, it’s cold and I’ve run out of ways to protect myself against October, the others are promoting lamb ribs like they’re going to bring forth change, maybe we’ll have a delicious phone call with Hades, she’ll be stirring a soup, laugh in that waxy way of hers, apologize before the sand runs out, you need to be outside the calling circle or else you’ll get sucked into fire, ignore the entrance, I see a kindling to stoke, a dozen secrets behind your teeth, but could we get breakfast after, pretend we’re not coated in mussel mud, we can bring the others, can hide the mugwort at home, don’t need virtue or speed, I’m no longer begging to be carried to the water, now through the wet stones, the rosemary hiding behind a magician well, remember me if all else is lost, know I tried, painfully gently, to help you see, yet my organs remain in bandages, oh my god would you even have the courage to follow me beyond the jaws, you once placed nutrients beneath my pillow, dared me to stick my hand in a pitcher plant, we get matching tattoos of sundew, we get lost on the way to the diner, and everyone complains about the bog water coating their lace, no one loves over-moist soil, but when at last we reach the road I see you smiling, absent-mindedly rubbing a bite on your thumb, later the waitress will ask us what season we’re dressing for and you won’t even justify with a word or a laugh, just a flick of your wrist and everything turns to shellflower.
Sam Moe is the first-place winner of Invisible City’s Blurred Genres contest in 2022, and the 2021 recipient of an Author Fellowship from Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing. Her first chapbook, “Heart Weeds,” is out from Alien Buddha Press and her second chapbook, “Grief Birds,” is forthcoming from Bullshit Lit in April 2023. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram as @SamAnneMoe.
