WHAT NO-ONE PICKS WILL RUN TO SEED

Do not number me

among that bundle of stalks you plan to sweeten.

For I am sour

 

and I have known your candlelight in forcing sheds

where no-one looks.

My subterranean crown you once divided, the tangles split,

then by hand reburied under mulch.

From eyes displaced and blind, I grow again.

 

With such guile you claim control,

oblivious – so long as sugar’s cheap –

how year on year the overwinter cold diminishes.

Glossy and firm, my stems emerge, creaking.

Each beneath its toxic, heart-shaped parasol.

 

So, twist off these crimson limbs

formed in darkness,

but do not taste my tartness unalloyed.

 

ii. 2024

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