Kathryn Smith
The honeysuckle outgrows its trellis
and climbs the weeds. I'm back
where I started: stuck in a parable
I cannot, botanically, and do not,
theologically, believe. I've been gathering
dried pods of sweet peas because I know
I'll need their fragrance come spring.
Flung seeds leave coiled husks
behind, taut as a ringlet my hair
would never hold. Stupid world
with its spilled abundance and magazine
promises and thrift-store curlers. By the end
of the dance, my head looked
slept on, aphids clinging to the wilt
of my homemade corsage. Blessed are
the plain, for they shall come into their own
one day—in a field, most likely, bandanna-
clad, swatting at black flies, burnt
to the sleeves. See how much
happier I/we/you can be when I/we/you
stop caring? I hardly even want
to die anymore.