Thrush Poetry Journal
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Liz Cambra
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At Dinner, I Grow Bored Among the Pregnant, When I Am Leavened
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. 



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