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Devil's Ivy

As if I'm the right kind of saint

By Lori LamothePublished about a year ago 1 min read
Devil's Ivy
Photo by Zach Reiner on Unsplash

The sunroom an explosion of mottled hearts,

tendrils unfurling all the way to the ceiling

as if I’m the right kind of saint, the kind

who can charm life from death’s coiled basket.

I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it.

My grandmother grew roses so deeply red

her garden seemed more dream than reality.

Even the yard I memorized as a kid held peonies

heavy enough to illuminate night like strings of moons.

This alchemy a darker quickening, almost impossible

to kill and fed by anything but light.

If I close my eyes I can actually feel them—

the roots of my failures reaching in blackness,

pulling sustenance from an energy so big it scares me.

nature poetry

About the Creator

Lori Lamothe

Poet, Writer, Mom. Owner of two rescue huskies. Former baker who writes on books, true crime, culture and fiction.

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