Panic grass

Settled on the side of the road
She is
A mandrake mother.
A witch planted deep with
Her many green middle fingers
Reaching for the sun,
Her nose filled up with dirt.
Witch-crass she lies buried, smirking
And in the night, she rises slow
A shower of loose earth
Commanding gleaming moonbeams
In a spotlight search for
Your daughter.
Yes, you, the Father with the
“I have a gun” t-shirt— smiling
Next to her prom date.
You think you’re funny, don’t you?
But the panic grass is coming.
She clambers in through the
Midnight window to find
Daddy’s little girl
Your virgin angel will learn the word
For the very first time.
Mandrake mother will shove
A hunger in her stomach
And clamp a hand across her mouth.
Your daughter will eat fire
So, you will want to show her
That iT’s a maN’s WorLd
And teach her to aCt LikE a LadY
But panic grass creeps in
Each night
With loose thighs and a flirty smile
To teach her how to use a condom.
You’d rather
Teach her to rEsPect herself
A whore does not a good wife make
When day breaks like an egg
Across those violet morning skies
It will sizzle with the smell
Of a white dress roasted,
And the witch-grass, she’ll lie buried, smirking.


Artwork by Georgia O’Keefe


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