Carrie Cook

Culture Warrior

Morning Glory

There is soil under my nails.
I scratched it, clotted and thick,
from his hands around my throat.
Something will grow there—
arrow-tipped leaves on creeping vines,
plaited cuffs, entwined,
a necklace of tightly wound bindweed:
It coils in my mouth.
In the hours after dawn,
the white buds twist open
spread my teeth apart
depress my tongue
so when I speak of him
all my words are beautiful.

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