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I go to hang Christmas lights, reluctant, first pruning the ivy out of control, thick stalks with tiny filaments, legs of millipedes, sticking themselves like plaque to shutters, porch railings, the siding by the front door. I am afraid to pull too hard, bring the whole structure down, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, so I chop and hack, arm muscles aching, hands caught by hidden briars, liars I thought were clematis, shimmering white in summer. I won’t see them bloom again, and none of this matters except hanging these damn lights as I wobble on a stepladder, feeling for hooks beneath the never-ending ivy that hides a rusted nail slicing my finger, blood sluggishly oozing. How can I remember when my last booster was? I don’t go to the doctor much anymore—who can afford $3000 deductibles and co-pays, and why bother anyway when the ivy will keep growing in every nook and cranny and tetanus might not be so bad after all. Very pretty, my neighbor calls—and I wave my hand, still bleeding, in answer.
ARS POETICA
A morning glory is just a morning glory
until I give it some shade, some rain,
turn it into an open
upside-down umbrella, or fold it
like a suitcase
mutely waiting. Oh, the possibilities
of poached pears that tear
at my heart, eaten cold (isn’t that the best revenge?)
My pen is a loom—
I pull and push and pull,
warp and weft, until something
catches.
Ink spills on my sweater,
the one I wove
black on green.
I pluck at one thread
then another
until I find the blue-green artery
that everything unravels.