Witchgrass
by Louise GlĂźck
Something comes into the world unwelcome calling disorder, disorder â If you hate me so much donât bother to give me a name: do you need one more slur in your language, another way to blame one tribe for everything â as we both know, if you worship one god, you only need one enemy â Iâm not the enemy. Only a ruse to ignore what you see happening right here in this bed, a little paradigm of failure. One of your precious flowers dies here almost every day and you canât rest until you attack the cause, meaning whatever is left, whatever happens to be sturdier than your personal passion â It was not meant to last forever in the real world. But why admit that, when you can go on doing what you always do, mourning and laying blame, always the two together. I donât need your praise to survive. I was here first, before you were here, before you ever planted a garden. And Iâll be here when only the sun and moon are left, and the sea, and the wide field. I will constitute the field.
