Glycyrrhuza Glabra
Ruta Graveleus
Uritca dioica
Verbena Officinalis
Artemesia Vugaris
Alchemilla Molles
Oenothera Biennis
Leonurus Caaudiaca
Lillium Tigirinum
Licorice Sweetwood
Rue—Herb of Grace
Stinging Nettle
Verran
Mugwort
Ladies Mantle
Evening Primrose
Mutherwort
Tigerlily
They could be girls names, recited
In Latin to call up Mary or the Devil
Whispered softly to bring on menus,
Pregnancy, and the pleasure in its making
Said quickly to reverse the natural stop
End—the quick and the warm—the flow of blood
and dirt This garden forest emerged—dark composted
earth piles lay like cattle in long winter coats—the grey
sky hides the brillant sun—a globe of white pearl
opaque above us pecking like poultry in this magic
abundance of plants—the lake to the west, St, Edward
and his forest to the east. All settles inside me. Blood
come as you may, I'll eat the leaves of the plants reproductive
and whole.
Night—
Light in the dining room
the parakeet with her head
in the bell I have made the table
my new desk just to hear her
sing, my possessions surround me
my mother's dead belongings—
how much they all mattered—the precious
and presented—the light reminiscent of
how she kept lamps burning low and sat
in the darkness—falling asleep in the green
chair we brought north from west Texas—she could
never thank us—until we had left the building
then she was so grateful for our visit.
It's already a year—when we were there
she was nervous, wretched almost, and the weather
oppressive New York City end of summer. Her death
was present everywhere after
the stoke in King's County CCT—sharing a room with a
gunshot victim—the bloodied pads on the floor—and two
policemen at the door. The boy was later handcuffed to
his bed and she was down the hall—afraid to walk
afraid to fall.
The end approaching with the coming weather—the winter
the cold apartment, her secrets taken apart—I found
it all, seated in my family home—half a century
to be dismantled.
She never appears in my dreams.
The green and yellow bird
sings in her small tight world. Sunday evening.
All reflection and no apologies.
Anne Elezabeth Pluto was born in the Bronx and grew up in Brooklyn. She is Professor of Literature and Theatre at Lesley University in Cambridge, MA where she is the one of the founders and artistic director of the Oxford Street Players. She was a member of the Boston small press scene in the late 1980s and the editor of Oak Square Magazine. She started Commonthought Magazine at Lesley 24 years ago. Her chapbook, The Frog Princess, was published by White Pine Press. She has been a participant at the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference in 2005 and 2006. Her e-book of poetry Lubbock Electric, available from the U.K.'s Argotist Editions. Her most recent publications are in Shadows of the Future an Otherstream Anthology. She lives in Boston with her family.