Poetry
Tough Love
Published in
Sep 19, 2024
Spotting a swath of sharp thistle
on the hillside, I stop
to admire her spunk, her punk,
her goblincore.
In studded armor with a messy shock
of purple hair, she protects herself
from hungry deer who find her
painfully unappealing.
But she is exactly my cup of tea.
By which I mean, I’d pluck her,
hang her out to dry, plunge her
into boiling water, and drink her up.
By which I mean, I’ll do just that
when I get home.
