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 KotthausBio: 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
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