Rip out all the demon weeds
by their roots, every last one. They are cruel in the way they arch toward June
with hope and anticipation, but their orange blossoms collapse with summer
barely nascent, then lay down in the garden like hair matted under a hat.
Those are spots where other
colors could shine: marigolds or dianthus or dahlias or pansies or flowers
whose names I’ve forgotten.
We did not ask for this.
Our predecessors planted these flowers of evil that would inspire Baudelaire
and I only want to be free of them. I rip out each by the bulbs without a care,
without a regret. You think they are beautiful but they are my seasonal nemesis.
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