The house I thought would be ours, not ours. The yard,
the trees I planted never thinking at the time I’d long
to call them mine—ours—though you don’t care
for trees, for space to lay out beds: edible (beans, onions,
garlic, corn, tomatoes, squash, basil and kale–just for starters),
ornamental (those daylilies I’m growing from seed, a start from
Mom’s red peony, poppies of every kind). The practical (apple
trees an investment!), the frivolous (double daylilies, firecracker red!)
the garden I imagine eclipsing the house itself, the house just a house, as long
as there are bookcases and light I don’t care, love, you don’t care as long as
you’re not saddled with an impossible mortgage when I go
the way of the patient, ravenous worms.
Stealthy. Dogged. Hungry.
What starts as an embrace becomes a chokehold.
Clever. Ingenious. Its own roots
disappear: why have origin when you so
overtake another’s identity?
The host: a fucking fool.
[notes on dodder, a poem-in-progress]