10 hours ago
Hi matsunosuperfan,
I like a lot about this piece. I feel like by the end italmost melds into the POV of a plant, or maybe more aptly, reveals the nature of the speaker as a plant, and it's written with a language that makes reading it a fun experience.
Thank you for sharing.
I like a lot about this piece. I feel like by the end italmost melds into the POV of a plant, or maybe more aptly, reveals the nature of the speaker as a plant, and it's written with a language that makes reading it a fun experience.
(06-16-2026, 02:41 PM)matsunosuperfan Wrote: I Woke Up Feeling So Irritable This Morning!Maybe the poem isn't intended to be written in a way that is firmly set in the POV of a plant, but is instead the human speaker oscillating between their own POV and a plant's, maybe to convey a sense of dissociation especially when the title is taken into account.
A brief stint in the garden almost killed me when you didn’t
call: all my loose skin came undone, bits of brown
stretched into a macrame of insect bites and furrows dug furrows dug by thorns is nice imagery. admittedly it's a little hard to visualize a macrame of insect bites but i'm willing to try for the intrigue of the phrase.
by thorns. To garden is to suffer. One scoops the bulbs up
from the earth swearing to faithfully rehome their roots, that the tiny hail
of nitrogen can fix whatever needs fixed. One listens to the honeybees intently
for no reason, knowing good and well all insects Do all insects sound the same? Crickets and cicadas? I'm now reconsidering the identity of the speaker.
sound the same: the thrumming of an old in-window AC unit
death-rattling in sine waves through ether we now know By this point I can assume the "one" being referred to is the gardener. Also I like sine waves, as if the speaker has an innate awareness of the mathematics of the natural world.
doesn’t exist. What grows, to the extent it does, depends on the oblique half-moon
hanging from the mailman’s troweled jowls. Maurice will soon deliver me Troweled jowls is fun
a new abundance, love delayed, slender packs pregnant with seeds
with romance novel names. Forget-me-not, black-eyed Susan. Jump-up,
Johnny: Jack’s back in the pulpit and we’ll all have snow I interpret this line as maybe a fun reference to an overdone trope in romance novels?
in summer. It doesn’t really matter what I plant: death is still
death. After a dozen humid nights, all bodies look the same.
Still I think my work well spent: yesterday, the cat awoke
and bounced relentless on my chest, an unclipped claw
convincing me to scream straight out of bed and fall lovely imagery/transition of scenery
into azaleas. I got drunk on amaryllis, took an unplanned nap beside the rose.
It wrapped its vines around me like a contract. You know I do not care
for rigid women; I did not sleep well. Today I take my cup of tea
so slowly that my insides by the time I finish are the warmest liquid
on the place. It must be raining on the Thames, which I have"on the place" feels a little weak
never seen. Time remains the world's most faithful surgeon, cutting These last few lines are strong. Love the imagery of a new budding appearing like a tiny fist.
brittle leaves from my green arms, making room for the next bright bud
to rise up like a fist. I watch the bees do their agnostic worship
in the pollen, quivering with mindless pleasure, and beside your empty chair
my heart is full and satisfied. I wouldn’t lie to you.
Thank you for sharing.