Caitlin Wilson

THERE'S NO OTHER WORD FOR PURPLE

 

The root is warped but

you ask me if it’s polish.
I put the seeds in, see? I’m

cultivating, collecting the dirt purple
beneath the white corona

of the nail bed. A bed
of nails, primeval ease,

a bed to lay my hunger in.
This left-hand callous

is from weeding out
independence under the white oak,

this one from a slug of juniper gin
and a bang of conversation.

You slam the plate,

knowing I’ll eat the echo, its fat
grapes rolling over the table and into my hand.


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