You Can Fill a Jar to the Top Twice

1.

Here, among the living, I speak to the mothers

of the dead. Seek out bouquets of hairy nettle,

contemplate the healing sting. Pinch off leaves

with thumb and pointer finger, gently, gently,

unstung. Or, in your rush, learn the joy of green

burn, that dull lingering. Spread this medicine

on a tray. Dry your gatherings in the dark.

By crackling fistful, drop them in a quart jar,

top them off with boiling water. Lid the brew.

Steep four hours. Drink deep to reach the ache

in your sobbing, perimenopausal womb

where the child once swam and breathed you.

2.

Here among the living, I speak to the mothers

of the dead. Valerian rises under the plum tree.

You didn’t expect a scent so sweet, white blooms!

You had to look it up, learn what to do: uproot

the long primeval stalks, smell the roots, wash

them in your kitchen sink and chop until the whole

house smells of teenage boy socks: colossal,

sacred, reeking feet. Grab a wide mouth Mason.

Pack it to the brim with roots. Fill it full, again,

with your favorite spirit: vodka, brandy, rum. Steep

six weeks. Sleepless, spoon it stinging, stinking,

under your tongue. Hold it there, burn. Lie down.

Circle the umbel of sleep. Press your cheek

against the soft in-between, lost queen. Nestle in.

Dream him.

2021

for Rosemerry

with thanks to Susun Weed for the title and Kierstin Bridger for the writing workshop