not full here
she is dry and rattles
she is clawed.

She is burrs on my hem
the thorn in my sandal
the ant’s sting on my thigh.

She has engineered
an infinite variety
of husks:

an armoury
of carriage designs
hooked, toothed, and spiked.

There are gliders and spinners
pods sticky and smooth
parachutes, catapults

and ingenious explosive devices.
Her colonising will
is absolute.

Only the birds’ songs
are fluid
and they are merely collaborators.

I retreat to rub balm
on my unprotected legs

and then Marika appears
her arms full of apricots.