Enchanter’s nightshade – small white flowers.
Gone before you can whisper their name.
These are my grandmother’s poison.

When the moon’s half eye is on me
and I can hear the sounds of shipwreck
ringing in the oaks, I go to the forest

and gather leaves and petals in my basket,
boil them with storm water over charcoal.
They squeak, hiss and chatter warnings.

My grandmother’s flowers roar and howl
when she brews them. She pours their animal
cries into bottles. I watch her

from a distance. And when the sun
is low, evening light, she casts no shadow.

first published in The London Magazine