Flora & Fauna

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Jonathan Jacob Moore

 

 
 

I remember how the red & brown

scorpion orchids inhaled my neck

aroused by the lingering aroma:

apocalyptic. Something

familiar. I remember foxgloves

begging to be

pollinated

raw.

 

Can you blame me for wanting

every garden

to burn? For wanting

the gazanias & roses

to bloom

on my side

of becoming—

for the world to wear

this color of birth?

 

To be Black      Pansy/ to be

          Black       Hellebore

hivemind

then

was to kill anyone

presumptuous enough to pluck

& pot & watch

as we made their property

our homes        watched us make

our homes

out of every other

owned              until

garden variety gone      until

pesticide parade.

 

Yes, to watch

was to wound.

Yes, to desire

then

was to speak

of flowers         tearing apart

human limbs & burying them

in our gaudy backyards.