megan green words
Visit me on
A sticky perfume
& there sits
lovely hard you
& sure if I'm not
a wife tells
the outlaw's testament
Shane Jesse Christmass
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I walk barefoot through the grassy
your heaven – remembering your
green thumb and long sought after
lost to daydreams or disease.
The flowers you planted I never
the names of, something exotic,
I was never good in Latin. These
the most time with, watering them
like children. I think they listened to
Your sister says I have no business
gardening – I killed her Wisteria
the year before.
To her, mine is the thumb of death –
I’ve never been invited back. Today
turns her head toward pastel, more
self-reflective, enriching shaman’s
The willow we planted still stands
a Titan among the wind, but these
will spread their youthful petals
and die their best among the breeze.
the rain will come, and I’ll be gone.
I’ll have someone to look in on the
All images anon. All words are my own.
© Megan Green 2012