Weed

Reading The Disobedience of Water, Sena Jeter Naslund.

Spent a lot of time cleaning away the construction and organic debris in the back near the house. And getting up the grass clods pulled up earlier, and into the yard waste bin. I did a small amount of digging the foxtail grass. A volunteer tomato plant came up in back, it may be far enough along to fruit, I suspect it is a Better Boy, given the location, and that the hybrid variety is hardy.


My Southern neighbor got an electric weed whacker, which is much quieter than the gasoline powered version, to deal with his neglected landscaping. In this neighborhood, a weedy yard is not notable.

I've been contemplating weeds. Hardy creatures, with many creative ploys to pioneer any potential crevice. They show up after volcanos, in tilled and ignored places, sidewalks and edges. They are liminal beings that find a place to put down sturdy roots, gather tree litter, elm seeds, dust and leaves, to create soil and spread. They get along with other plants, making it hard to dig them out without digging out more useful neighbors.

I've rather come to admire them, even as I play Unnatural Selection with them. I sweep up the elm seeds, I uproot the foxtail. Adaptable is useful to the adaptable species, but it's not generally appealing to humans, who are very, very, cleverly, adaptable. We, more than any dandelion, magpie, or tree of heaven, are weeds. We are such an invasive species, and we change our environment to suit ourselves, while not making ourselves more palatable to other creatures. The bugges and bacteria will get us eventually.


They asked: How would you like your death?
Blue, like stars pouring from a window.

I took the blue pill, and then
another. It was easy
but still my ghost, here, tethered.
I have been living such a long time
for someone my age.
I have been living in pain, etc. etc.
Yes I have tried
the hard labor of joy. Yes
most days I do not want
to die and too take pleasure
in sparrows, splashed sun.
Sadness has a long tongue and wide mouth and hounds
me wherever I go.
There are women
who hold the door open, beckon.
They are blue and it is blue where I am not.
The thing about stars is they are dead,
or some are and there is no discernable difference.
Do you understand? Something calls my name
like my mother used to.
I am tired
and something is calling, calling.
- Leila Chatti
Explaining the Attempt to the Doctors,
Beginning with Two Lines from Darwish
heteroglossia