The Boy with the Plant On His Head

Sandrine Rodrigo

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.

About the Author

By Excalibur Publications



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