Hemlock Seeds
Ellen Webre
A white flower has grown
in the jaws of a virgin,
thickets bursting from her lips,
long fleshy roots around her neck.
She had it coming, he said,
she swallowed those purple spots
and leaves like parsley.
I know who planted this here,
Wild-eyed and naked,
I could writhe and scream
and crawl up his window.
I could tear this man apart
with nothing but my teeth
and own two hands.
She dallies by the river,
bending trees to sorrow
with each cry of her sweet
fingertips. The water
is her babbling song.
She has not yet chewed
through the thorns.
The empty-hearted gardener
is a cackling wretch,
making dove coos in the forest,
with a hellhound’s jaw.
I should have ripped his tongue
out the moment he arrived, but
I once had no fear of such beasts.
My lady braids silk cords,
roping black ribbons around
his clay figure. I bind it to raw
chicken feet, and call upon
the spirits to do my bidding.
She looks at me sadly, six feet
deep in my own witch fury.
34
Cauldron Anthology