Do you know the plant sorrowbalm?
When fire stifles every trace
of the word you (for you, with you, because of you),
smoke spurs the germination of its seeds.
Its blossoms hang heavy as a black peony’s,
yet its drooping petals are light.
Its roots penetrate the beginnings
of a story that’s come to an end.
Its thorns sear. But a tea or compress
from its leaves can heal.
Its fruit can be habit-forming,
cause nausea. Forgotten in a pocket,
it becomes a rattle beating
a frantic rhythm with every step.
Sorrowsorrowbalmsorrowbalmbalm.
For the I, barely breathing, its scent galls.
Wait, here comes a sneeze.
To clear the head at last.
Author’s comments:
In London’s Kew Gardens I saw flowers from southern Africa, a region often devastated by wildfires. The plants attempting to survive there have become so savvy that the fire is not able to destroy them entirely; some of them form root systems that allow them to grow back even after having been burned. For other species, the smoke spurs the germination of seeds and hastens their growth. Reading about this, I knew that the information had the force of metaphor, but I didn’t foresee the events that would give rise to this poem.
