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POT OF GOLD by Tina Barr • Cleaver Magazine
POT OF GOLD by Tina Barr Stings stitching under the skin, bristles, like thoughts that roil, like brambles’ thorns that catch at my pants, scrape bar pins of blood on my forearms. Lindy says not to touch the nettles; when they hit hot water, they’ll lose their sting, but not before, so I shake them into the boiling. When I go to taste them though, two small yellow worms curl in the spoon’s harbor. Lindy and Ed didn’t tell us they didn’t have clear title, hadn’t paid their taxes, so the land we bought is delinquent, up for grabs. Late, the trees thrash. I want to set fire to their trailer, want to bait their place with honey, so bears will tear their cars open like sardine tins. I line up people like toy soldiers, whose carelessness is never personal, the way poison ivy grows, twines, glossy, reefs the woods. Foxglove multiplies, its high combs flowering into apartments for bees, but in a tea, a poison to serve to Lindy. Brown recluse scare me the most; the bites go necrotic. Late in the day a double rainbow melts its colors away.