Your rosy colors bloom across my fingers,
girly girl. You really know how to show yourself
and, what’s more, you know how to show me.
You tie me in knots and restrict my activities
for days on end. A doctor once laughed
and called you ‘the ohio river valley crud’
because you had danced around my bosoms
while I harvested grapes. Ok, I was huge
pregnant and panting and, yes, my fault,
I pulled my bra off because I felt I’d smoother.
Irony—yeah, I get it.
You got the last laugh then. You’re
laughing today; your sap found flesh
through my gloves. But it’s not over.
Once my fingers regain greater range
of motion, I’ll hunt you out,
every sprig of you, then I’ll pour boiling
water down your throat, not once
but for as many doses as it takes
to make you wilt until you disappear.
I remember where I was yesterday and the day before.
I’ll blister you back to your roots and eradicate you.
Yes, Ivy, I hear your comeback:
“But birds like my berries.”