by Alicia Hoffman
Ants in spring crawl up mother in law’s tongue
and spin their honeydew, which is really a sweet
name for excrement. There is some wisdom
in this I can’t untangle. Like the ivy vines
that wind their way up the siding. Impossible
to unravel. The centuries old woman in me
sees more clarity in the leaves of the maple tree.
The way it stays patiently till the weeping cherry
blooms to bud. Deep summer, green as canvas
made of grass. Aster and hollyhock and amaryllis.
Hyacinth in the flowerpots. I would like to speak
in flowers. I would like to translate the language
of trees. Even now, Ophelia’s last song resides
within some ancestral well in me. Deep below
its chambers, listen as I carry the grove’s melody.
Weigh me down with evergreen. Watch me drown.
Originally from Pennsylvania, Alicia Hoffman now lives, writes, and teaches in Rochester, New York. Recent poems have appeared in The Atticus Review, Rock Paper Poem, The Night Heron Barks, West Trestle Review, The Penn Review, and elsewhere.
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