The Herbalist’s Apology Elizabeth Harris

The Herbalist’s Apology

Oleander is my favourite flower You know this, and so You take it’s meaning to be mine. That I am dangerous and fierce behind my shell of calm precision.

I have never been a poisoner; I study empathy and ails, Treat the effects of their making, Fill the sickbeds with their resting faces.

We met in Chrysanthemum’s, Your smile all fire and wily, Against my floral-heart. Like incense burns, it smelled sweet.

When I was young, I’d find Honeysuckle Past the books, in vacant dirt. I never questioned how they got there. I drank their sweet, I didn’t think.

We are made of dirt and bones, And roots and mud and spill; And every inch of give and take, Has been lost in our burial song.

I am no Oleander; No undone poison except for me But your Honeysuckle Is sweet relief, my love. And I am sorry, for all we have done

Elizabeth Harris