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Love letter to the peas, the Fabulous fabacaea

Of all the specimens I collected,

plastered to my index cards with packing tape,

writing the latin and common names, the family,

it was your banner, wing and keel that seduced my memory.


You are not ashamed of to whom you are related,

your flowers a badge, your lobed leaves a flag.

You've never been a weed to me.


I've gathered trefoil from the road median,

to throw from the roofs on the summer solstice,

marveling at the way your blooms cluster into a star.


I've peeled my wings from the window,

having flown toward the bluebonnets or the lupins

that erupt like indigo springs on the edge of the highway.


I'll never forget the wonder

of first holding a hand lens up to clover:

hundreds of praying peas, all gathered together.


After I've worshipped your body,

when no one is looking,

if you've offered your submission,

I tug on your keel to reveal your pollen.

Teeth tucking over my lip

as I spread yours.

A moan escapes me,

as if it were my own clit I courted.


You've romanced me as well.

Mountain laurel, with your saccharine bubble gum,

much too strong.

Until I linger, let your scent soften, balm.

And you, fava,

with your black hearts and black veins.

And you, redbud

radiant herald of spring.





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