- makeswordswork
Wild garlic

That which grows freely
and is overlooked for me to take.
Mother, lover,
my friend in the grass,
under the willow,
by the creek.
Can I be an egg in your pantry?
We meet illegally in the park
and once we tore each other apart.
I tried to pot you,
now I live like a ranger,
enjoy everything under the sun
but will not disturb one thing.
Instead I wring dry moments,
become different in them each time,
what shapes I make with fallen petals.
When I close the door behind me
the world dematerialises and I lie
faceless and gelatinous,
breath shallow.
You, textured and bejewelled,
surface where babies crawl,
grew straight out of the dirt,
this herb is a cloth to you,
each night you sew a different dress.
You are my place on the inside
of the rattling window
and the one I roll with
under the hedgerow.
Despite all noise
there is only one choice.
As I tend to my mundanity
I think of you out there
and am able to continue.
Writing by SETAREH EBRAHIMI
Artwork by LAURA JONES