Jessamyn Duckwall - Two Poems

Regarding the Weeds

six strawberries pulled from among purslane and dandelion. i eat—
they are sweeter than anything i deserve. is that true?

i eat vegetables. or,
i eat ground flesh of goat
slaughtered by the same hands that pulled

its red body from its mother.

at noon i touch myself in a hot bedroom
though there is always work to be done.

goat meat with fennel and mayo. the garden
heaves its chest beneath its corset of weeds.

the roses, blooming under veils of aphids,

the peony, planted in shadow; its pinkness
slow to bare itself—
i eat what the ground 
pushes up and my stomach fills with curdle.

oh, the girl who won’t say clit
is going on again about flowers…

knapweed, valerian, star of bethlehem, 
thirst yet such blooming, my god, what urge…

tired of being a girl. dead heads of dahlia 
clutched in a fist. yeast bloom on the brassicas, 

how to know, how to know anything?

to eat—to prepare—
i tie my hair back with a ribbon. i bottle my sweat
and watch it crystallize. the knap and bind of what

is growing gnarled and furred inside. what is this mess spilling 
from all the holes of me.

---

maidenhead

am a thing like a woman in my new pink skirt ,, its hem
dresses ankles like a bridesmaid, veiling i cover my legs with it ,, ungodly 
balloon filling up with nightbreeze around me each of its ten buttons an eye
that watches men their glances and sharp teeth

i dress up and resume my place out in the pasture ,, kick among
the lupine and goldenrod like good little, best little mare feet cloven
but you can’t tell when i
dance this way

    skirt pregnant with shadow, veiling

(love it when you can’t see me ,, —unwed limbs of sticky cleaver, hairy vetch)

in my pleats and folds and slips and gauzes and films am shaped like rosebloom or
hyssop or teakettle or blade!

i cover ,, cower

dressage of me like prayer to master (ritual fit for eyes of god ,, veiling)