By Kathryn Willis
She wants to be buried in the soil – flesh to dirt with nothing in between
a seedling granting life into the color green.
Her toes: roots stretching down into the dirt with taut veins
and engulfing the wet earth with as many tight holds as she can.
Her torso: a stem to poke out from the soil and reach up toward the sky,
a thick trunk of bark and flesh.
She is the overgrown ivy underneath the star-lit sky, a mesh -
loosely woven web of branch and leaves, twine and
lace braided and latched to windows and brick siding.
She glows a deep green, her leaves a
shade darker, gleaming in the moonlight. Growth a quick
and steady force upon the world, shaken earth and
soil beneath her branched fists.
The blood of the earth flows through her, veins
aflame with life and sap.
Dare to cut her down and she will be buried
again, wrought and stained in the same blood which killed her
in the first place.
You can’t rid her from your world, for she will
divide, conquer until her vessels itch at your soul.
Kathryn Willis is an Ohio University alumni with a degree in English - creative writing. She currently lives in Cincinnati, Ohio.