Weed by Sherry Bollero

Mother grew
gladiolus-tall
in an English garden
where she uprooted
heaved herself off to the wilds,
shouting rebellion at the wind.

Her fingers
splayed down into dust,
working it deep
under her nails,
furiously she went on
blooming, sharp and loud.

Mother is built
of adamantine stem
and violent bright shields. But I,
I am oxalis that creeps
low along the earth,
snuffling out existence with suffocating persistence.

I’ve turned a sparse-faced flower
heavenward,
sitting sullen in the pink-purple umbrella
shadow of my mother’s shields.

I am crawling
out of my mother’s shade,
yawning my arms across the breadth of the yard.

 

Sherry Bollero is a doctoral student in English at the University of North Dakota (UND) where she currently teaches English composition. Her work has appeared in Watershed Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, and The Poetry Annals’ anthology The Anatomy of Desire. 

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