by Amanda Auchter
Is this a type of desire? A question
of faith that your lover
will not leave if you serve him enough
bread, tea, your body. Devotion is false,
St Zita believed, that only in servitude
one could find God. Servitude
as penance. As love. So you become
servile, offer up poems, a bed
to spend the night, a glass of dark
wine. So you open the door, drive him
to the airport, let him kiss you
goodbye. But you are a cup
he expects to break. You serve him
from this cup. You carry the cup
to his mouth. You want him to taste
your willingness, your shame.
Scorpion Grass
by Amanda Auchter
Forget-me-nots used to be known as 'scorpion grass', with the current
name only appearing in the early 19th century.
Forget-me-not, delicate throat
in your palm. How easy it is to
crush me underfoot, under your
body's weight in this field. You throw
down blankets here, twist grasses
into rings you give to your wife. I bend
and bend, my head too heavy with
a month of rain. I am small,
a mouse's ear. You forget how
you pulled off each of my petals
before her, twirled my roots around
your long fingers. Me, so blue
and coiled, a wind shiver, a sting
you named, a broken stem.
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