Milkweed By Amy Kotthaus

Milkweed cannot cry out
to fruit-stained fingers, explain
how it feels to be pried open,
weeping opaque drops. Insides
are loosed to catch the wind
and scattered in another's delight.
It cannot call to them
who fling out soft boned arms.
Today, they may be flighty,
dizzy creatures whirling skirts
in the timeless burning before
evening. No prophetic warnings,
just a silent watchfulness,
a seeing, prescient stillness.
It knows time will catch them
out one night, too late when
the womb turns to silken down
encased in fibrous armor.
Their mothers will look for them
in the witching fog. They find only
the milkweed pods now swollen.

About ​Amy ​Kotthaus

​Bio: Amy Kotthaus is a writer and photographer. Her poetry has been published in Ink in Thirds, Yellow Chair Review, Occulum, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Gnarled Oak, and Section 8. Her photography has been published in Storm Cellar, Crab Fat Magazine, Quantum Fairy Tales, and Digging Through the Fat.

Twitter: @amy_kotthaus