by J.R. Toriseva

Scraped off the wall of intense orange
slippery strands woven together,
studded teardrop spits out of the weaving. Empty,
the coach rolls on its side and melts back to earth.

Months went on as I ate a few, kept a few
mostly because I wanted the ridged taste of clean dirt
crept into my fairy godmother in spring
mounded up three-fisted dirt hills.

Composted dreams, the sleeping white orbs
embedded in their black mountain,
a week, two weeks: green rushed out of the volcano
two oval leaves pushed up, breathing black into blue.

Rain soaked through stem, worm-white,
silky roots, hairs reaching down, spreading
across green umbrella of leaves,
settle into the shoulder-like roots.

The leaves with their soft, lush prickles,
use their width to take the sun and water.
Reaching vines own the garden plot:
beware gophers, moles, vine borers.

Adjoining spiders and ants scale the plants,
corkscrew tendrils, rolling up and down
springing, curling, winding up and down
the burst green and white bud, downy.

Beware beetles, powdery mildew and aphids,
silver hairs shining, green prongs protecting them,
The male bud rises higher off the narrow, downy stem.
The female flower releases the prongs to show.

J.R. Toriseva’s “Dandelion Rites” was chosen for the anthology Days I Moved Through Ordinary Sound, published by City Lights. Along with being awarded the Mary Merritt Henry Prize in Poetry and a waiter scholarship to Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, Toriseva’s work has appeared in or is forthcoming from The Cincinnati Review, Descant, Fulcrum, The Fiddlehead, CV2, Prism International, 14 Hills, Nimrod, The Adirondack Review, Grey Sparrow Journal, Soundings East, and JACKET.