Photograph by Gryffyn M

You were trimming the mile-
a-minute in your garden. There were shears
in your hands, like green-trimmed
monster claws, conqueror talons
of vines. You couldn’t lift high enough,
but I was there. Taking a climb from the door
at the back of my neck, I rose
to the task. The shears felt large and terrifying
slipping into my hands from yours,
as if the monster had now grabbed me,
clawed me, sliced me up and down,
and I had let it munch happy. I clipped
a daisy, cut a buttercup. You could see tremors
crawling out from underneath
my flesh, peeling my eyes back
like clothing-pegs, so that I could see
the mess I had made—the cup
not so buttery anymore, the other flower
unworthy of a commercial-value-
name. Most days, I would have swept
the floral dust away. Today, I dropped
the shears, and let them cut me to the pith.