To a Milkweed Pod
your ripening womb—does it ache
tight skin, pistachio green
hundreds of little ones packed within:
parasols inside-out
maternal quickening—I see
the labial seam
split, progeny peek out—slick
and glistening and glassy
each platinum blonde has angel hair
each pear-shaped seed, a face
I see now, how they cling to you
rocking at your threshold
dozens at your doorway in the breeze
and then their ribs arch down
proper parasols now
blooming clouds of floss almost out
glancing back, holding on
you’re almost their memory
I can imagine your cry
when a big gust lifts your towheads
leaving you
gutted, and they fly
GWENDOYLN SOPER is a beekeeper and aspiring pomologist on a small orchard in rural Utah. Read more.