But Ready

Poison ivy, not yet out in leaves, has still broken out on me.
Razed mountains on contaminated wrists and hands.
Just a touch or two, from touching black-coarse-hair-vines gripping pines.
The sweetgums the landowner hates. The fallen colors her husband favors.

And I, bills to pay, and no good not green place to hide.
The destiny of life to be buried in, under, beneath other heavy life.
Weighted with the weight of water. Heavily doused by a rain
dry creek bed awake again sort of winter.
To taunt us back into another dry summer.
Itching beneath cracked leather gloves already,
cracked burnt uprising textured leather hands are steady.
At least for now, they are steady. And the twisted green tips
on the ends of poisoned twiggy whips, are not yet out.

But ready.

Poisoned ivy

Leaves of three and green.
Arcs in ridge curved backs,
birthing segments of bent ribs,
broken underfeet.

Waxen skin wanes comfort on peachy flesh,
to make red mounded mountains out of plains of blonde.
Once fingertraced delicately, now dug at bleeding and raw.

Not to hate one’s self, to pull pain hard under sharp fingernails,
but more just the carnal curiosity in an itch. A hidden sensation.
Something to dig for. Force smile and grit teeth.

And root out.