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.”