Mint

Eight spears     cut in threes, bruise side down   set in your shoes
between toes and sole, sock and leather      will hold the
   planter, bind him
   your woodsman, the rake          to you, his nose to your heel  
   for five days, four
nights & one long walk in any civic   park (the kind splattered
   with sore-red impatiens,
cleomes sticky as rope weed, fleecy, tired dog roses, dull
   and broken grass     lazy flowers
brought in trucks and planted with pole shovels, never
   touched by gardeners’ hands)

washed in a bowl with lead shavings, frost-fattened
   currants & coils of hair (his hair)
one year later  the leaves stain blue, false ink  azure as a
   gas flame, as wet platinum;
eaten with orange peel and ginger, the leaves taste only
   of salt, of yellowed skin &
argument   and must be chewed & spat out twice, onto
   newspaper   else you’re lost;
wrapped in vine leaves, the mint will kill any houseplant
   or mouse, anything weak;
but, tied with amber thread, steamed quills, or half a
   shoelace (his lace) in two bunches
of twelve cuttings & hung from two trees—one bending
   north, one east—the cures attract
finches, hatchling gulls, maimed crows   & burn their
   pebbly gullets, in sympathy

—R. M. VAUGHAN

(Originally published summer, 2002.)