-
Labor
- Wesleyan University Press
- Chapter
- Additional Information
Labor Each sword of the plant is burning. You would not believe what surgery midwinter light can do, cutting subject from object. I don't want the way I used to, rushing to have and swallow whole. Death takes its time; little by little I've lost my taste for victory. Let others fight for rank and class. I pass. It's better plants and stars prevail without our interloping, eyes for certitude and arms for love, our pens for poor taxonomies, our campaign promises and rant. Too long has love been taken for belonging— let it, with its banners, fall away. I have to carry water now; I need to feed the plant. 207 ...