First day of summer,
yard work, looking at
flowers of an unknown
species. Yellow, dainty,
on long stems springing
from the abandoned bed
where we once grew
early salad — mustard
greens perhaps? I have
forgotten what was there
now; it was years ago
that we grew
more than weeds
in those beds.
This may not
even be something
descended from what
we planted. I take one
into my mouth — bitter
as ironweed, astringent
bright on my tongue;
spit it out praying it’s just
distasteful and not
poisonous.
Back inside, out of the heat,
I turn on the television
and turn it back off again
at once. Astringent and
dark, the visions there,
and surely poisonous
as that weed was not.
This news growing from beds
we abandoned long ago —
was it something we planted
or an invasive species?
A god’s voice says,
eat of this and know
the truth. I bend a knee
to the floor, hungry,
terrified, and not sure
I’ve got the strength
to rise.
Dark Matter 