M. L E N O I R B O N D
I am flakes of jagged porcelain
reflecting the nearly full moon.
The thrift store tea sets, faded
flower prints and beige Saturnian stains,
bought simply for the indulgence
of hurling them against the concrete
slab in a deep blue backyard.
The sharp blast of a perfect
smash, a new universe
of unwavering, shimmering stars.
Is it really the sound, or is it
the hard pitch? Or is it something
entirely different, the contrastive
silence after there is nothing
left to break.
A black and white French film,
that quick eruption
of the argument, then
the even more brutal, long
lasting tenderness of making up.
Merde, mon amour,
allume moi une fumée?
Asteraceae Silybum marianum
I was born of a hundred tiny horns
balancing on hollow stems
reaching into the earth’s dark navel.
In spring, my soft purples and bright greens
pull in the attention of pollinators.
Advice to humans: you must witness
a bumblebee falling asleep at dusk
in the middle of a blackberry blossom
amid a gauzy summer breeze
to become truly complete.
I, too, am a thing to be viewed,
but also to never be touched.
My hooking claws
are always ready
to snag fur or feathers or skin
with the precision of arrows.
I am the symbol of a once stentorian
country, now softened by its
hills of verdant glaze and weather-
smoothed, craggy introductions.
Come autumn, I go beige and
begin to grey, brittle under rains
after months of lemon-yellow sun.
My spikes remain even as
I crumble into the slumber season.
M. Lenoir Bond graduated from University of Southern California with a BA in English/Creative Writing and Theatre, and holds an MFA from Pacific University in Writing/Poetry. She’s published online journalistic pieces about silent films and fairy tales, and serves as a fiction editor for The Molotov Cocktail and a poetry editor for Phantom Drift. M. has work published in Prairie Schooner, Best New Poets, december, Rust + Moth, Belletrist, and more. She’s a little obsessed with the phases of the moon, plant medicine, and spending time at the ocean.