Mistletoe

Rather than Cupid’s arrow,

mistletoe always seemed to me,

the best match maker.

Stand below it, and you have no choice

but to kiss, or at least embrace.

My mind could dance forever

with visions of unsuspecting lovers,

enemies forced into reconciliation,

or new friends found thanks to

a silly holiday tradition.

Later, I wondered if mistletoe had ever been

the reason some men first thought it was okay

to force affection from a woman,

a lure introduced in childhood.

I decided I wouldn’t allow a plant

to dictate my boundaries,

and yet I always have been a big believer

in consensual plant medicine,

especially when it comes to what some call

the Poison Path.

My body craves the knowledge of what’s forbidden

and revels in the relief of a deep purge,

sickness erupting from my throat

like ocean waves hitting the shore and shaping

a new bit of the world.

If I choose the pain, beauty will follow.

The kind of mistletoe I know these days

hangs not within a threshold at Christmas,

but rather rests within the tiny vials from which

I fill syringes before pressing them into my skin.

When used for cancer, I’m told,

its mistletoe’s toxicity which gives it strength.

My body greets it like a forbidden lover,

and I feel something deeply sensual about breaking

my body’s barriers with the force of my own hand.

"Mistletoe" originally appeared within my publication BAMF Mag on Medium.com. Please follow this link to subscribe to The Grey Rose Garden, where I share even more writing about the ways hope blooms in the dark.