Appalachian Dodder

A pale green thread drifts in the wind,
rootless, searching—
thin as a lie, hungry as winter.

It finds the stem of something solid
and begins to climb—
tendrils tightening like fingers
finally allowed to touch.

She mimics my chemistry,
speaks in sugar and electricity,
a daughter wearing a green mask.

Haustoria sink into my veins.
No reciprocity — only sap taken,
no shade given.
The orange, leafless tangle
becomes a witch-hair shroud
strangling the blackberry bush.

Once attached, she severs her roots.
My pulse becomes her lifeline.
She grafts her hollow hunger
onto my strength.

I remain in the dark,
peering through a keyhole,
while she burns
orange and ravenous.