Foxglove

by Ambalila Hemsell

Of course I am in awe of it, the foxglove. My own
dayglow death purple. Birth purple, inside the belly
of the whale purple. Blood deep, river deep, blood river.
I make the future tangible and human. I make little parts
of the living planet. Inside the belly of the whale was
wall to wall plastic. Coated in purple belly juice
like it was a party. Perhaps the foxglove was never mine.
My legacy sings. It runs down the beach. It says, “Beach, beach!”
It speaks! It blinks and stutters. It catches the light. It slips off
the driftwood and disappears. The mussels go on collecting lead.
The geoducks with their explicit heads. There are slivers of sunlight
cutting through. Racoons peek out. Hungry and hungover
as teenagers. Yellow eyes in a dark green place. Tree trunks
slick, split, and salted. A pocketed world, holding itself secret.
Slug and toadstool. A world I am erasing, even as I write it down. Even as
my loves run through it, wearing their blood and their thirst
on their sleeves.