I will give you a bunch of nettles,
wilting and tied with binder twine.
I will choose the most delicate white flowers,
fleeting and deceitful as a hoar frost.
Their scent of faint, tainted herb
will remind you of the cows.
Swaying up the grassy lanes.
Slick tongued and flick tailed.
Dropping greenness, sudden and soft.
Even in water these flowers won’t revive.
I would like to see you clutch them,
as they impale your thick, cruel skin
and welt your weakened flesh.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Catherine Baker
would be pleased to hear them.