Edna’s Mommy walked her through the fields,
trampling down grass and briars
on a hunt for wild weeds for secret teas.
The process was a penance, I imagine,
paying for a night in Paris.
And I try to envision what the hillsides sounded like.
The quiet part of the countryside
where a gaggle of women
might hide a pregnant poetess.
What sorts of birds were singing out
over the pains in her insides?
What kind of snakes lie hidden in the weeds
waiting to throw her from her horse
and rattle her down to the womb?
How thankful would she have been
to hit the ground hard, just right?