Folds Painted Periwinkle

Men who must be taught when to take their turn. Women who learn to rest in longing. Iris arms rise like swords from the earth but then, oh my god, the blooms open like the gift only a woman can give. Folds painted periwinkle loosening to the point of total surrender.

Morning spreads like a bruise, getting darker in the moments before the storm. The backyard is overrun with violets almost knee-high. Those weeds but not others. I keep saying I cannot manage the land myself – I need engagement – I'd like help. This and other wishes burning up on falling stars. I'm starting to get the idea John Donne would not be a friend of mine.

When they asked, “are you from Hudsonville” I saw restrained judgement pulsing in the blood vessels of their eyes. Sure, you can accurately call that projection, but I saw it. It is in a witch's purview to root her feet into the earth as loving kindness while also despising the encroaching darkness. Jays eat all my strawberries yet I grow more. It's like that.

Who controls my body and why? I am not a field to be fenced. Female subordination for male power both terrifies and bores me. Grow up.

I gather spilled coffee beans from the counter to grind what is left of the day.