Sandrine Rodrigo
Contributor
long before Wordsworth was born
there was a boy who called nature
his Home. he loved her so much,
he married her daughter—
one of the nymphs that ran away
when a dirty satyr wanted to play.
she ran without shoes and tripped
on her roots, when he caught her.
the first thing she gave birth to
was a flower. it died young,
and they buried it under my
grandmother’s cape, beneath
green strings that stuck out
of brown patches.
the next baby was a fruit.
my father was so sad he
ate it
and blamed it on the cook.
there was a lot he could overlook
in the name of love, but when
his wife gave him a seed to put
in the cradle, he had to peck,
what was the point of sex?
the last child was a mix
that made him wonder
if my mother’s womb
liked playing tricks.
he told me to stay still
as he worked the scissors round
my head. pruning was an art
he was new to.
yet he managed somehow
to cut green without red,
like he knew you.
