Sherry Chandler » 2005 » December » 16
Poison Ivy
This year there are no blooms,
only wilted stems, like wrists
flung around the oaks.
Hungry grackles still arrive,
gathering like suitors on the lawn.
Inside the house, my cat looks on;
last week he must have prowled
and rubbed his paws along the poison buds:
holding him caused blisters
on my lips and arms.
Wherever he brushed
August wrote its name
in streaks of red.
Then in the bath
he cried and clawed. Scratches
cross-hatched over wheals.
With shot of cortisone
spreading in my hip,
I grabbed a sprayer,
aimed the venom of an herbicide
into the trees. I’m cautious now.
On button-down summer nights,
shrunken leaves caress the oaks.
The grackles shift,
my cat goes on a prowl.
I plump his blanket, knowing he’ll return,
that the ivy will creep back on the bark,
hiding tiny berries
beneath unfaithful blooms
dropping all across my lawn.
— David Cazden, from Moving Picture (Word Press, 2005)
Posted with permission of the poet.
This post was written by sherry
