Sarah French: weeds

this yard is a disgrace weeds propelled by their own inner trajectories want to grab more sky snails have left silver highways lemons fall and squash like faces against the driveway everything green moves to fill cracks in the cement are an open invitation the pepper tree has thrown out its branches like a diva embracing applause the woman in her almost black suit her linen face creased against the anarchy this yard is a disgrace she says poison she says whippersnipper she says secateurs she says she doesn’t understand five years the garden and I have grown green and surly together she doesn’t understand my father in a faded deckchair on a blonde and blue day lost in the shadows of leaves as long as nothing’s dead I say as long as nothing’s dead her mouth is a red tremor she can tell

I mean it.