“Is it like fun? Writing
was always hard hard for me, but I think I’d love love
to be a writer.” To be a poppy, though…
The green pod bending
the bristly, slim green stem, or
- “right right right, I bet it must be
like a fucking orgasm if like everybody reads
your book” -
Look
how a stem shoots out from the others
mission creeps the pod forward which stick out horizontal
to the ground
rather than the stem bearing the curling weight of
those downward pods.
They are built for wind,
for distribution, for coverage.
Can one imagine
(“what’s the name of your book?”)
what they imagine if such things flicker
in the green vegetative soul? A world of poppies.
A utopia of poppies.
Every flower is an aggressor.
- Karen Chamisso
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