Liz Cambra
At Dinner, I Grow Bored Among the Pregnant, When I Am Leavened
Only By Botanics
Only By Botanics
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Nutmeg, wormwood,
purple thistle
with a spiral stair
of down—plant speak
more palpable
than present company
and their squall
of pleased
discomforts.
I can conceive
of a thousand uses
for a lime leaf, could
cure a month of scurvy
with an ounce of bitter
orange. I could air
my feminine complaint,
I could wail. But words
flung into a garden
stick in place. All the rest
must be rest, and flower.
Liz Cambra lives in California. Her poetry has appeared in Two Serious Ladies and The Feminist Wire.
Return to September 2020 Edition
purple thistle
with a spiral stair
of down—plant speak
more palpable
than present company
and their squall
of pleased
discomforts.
I can conceive
of a thousand uses
for a lime leaf, could
cure a month of scurvy
with an ounce of bitter
orange. I could air
my feminine complaint,
I could wail. But words
flung into a garden
stick in place. All the rest
must be rest, and flower.
Liz Cambra lives in California. Her poetry has appeared in Two Serious Ladies and The Feminist Wire.
Return to September 2020 Edition