Floral Binge
I catch her this morning
face down in my clematis,
lips an open starfish
with no explanation.
I tell her I have
a right to know.
The petals are tickling
her throat like a laugh,
rainbows dribble from
her glistening mouth,
a paintbox spilling
down her clothes.
The rose by the fence
looks sheepish,
knows he was only
saved by his thorns.
She picks off some aphids,
crunches them too.
A spider dances
on the tips of her teeth.
Where’s the line
between consumption
and being
consumed?
When will you be satiated? I ask,
a grimace laced across my chin.
The black hole in her torso
tells us never.
She vomits stigmas
on my patio
just so she
can eat again.
You visit me in my bedroom again
This time I’m carving you into a star
to set into a Hollywood boulevard.
I won’t like the trainers trampling
on my head all day you say it’s a bit much
and I say I know, put the half-formed terrazzo
into my wardrobe with the rest of the plans
to tether you to the ground.
No one is immortal Jess you say
and your kittens skitter through my mind again.
How do they know that you aren’t sunbathing
in LA, haven’t chosen to live
without them?
Perhaps it wasn’t kindest to save them
from the sharp parts of your decline.
The staples chewed into your apricot skin,
your spelling mistakes, the collapsing.
How your mum knew
before she knew.
________________
Jessica Boatright is based in Lincolnshire.. She is part of the Writing East Midlands Momentum scheme and founder of Raising The Fifth, a curated creative digital space for people who don’t have children.
These poems were chosen by Anthropocene Guest Editor HLR.
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