We call it shy grass, he said, as I pointed
to the dark, creeping foliage, the pert pink flowers
looking like miniature firework displays.
Then he bent down, looked up at me,
and ran his forefinger gently along one of the veins.
The double compound leaflets folded―
like synchronized swimmers,
like tiny hands in prayer,
like a Venus flytrap.
I had just moved here. Everything was new
and amazing. Including him. I felt myself shiver
as I watched him touch vein after vein.
Now, I pull these from my yard with a vengeance.
I wear thick gloves with rubber fingertips
and padded palms. Far from shy, sleepy
or shamed, their taproot is strong and robust.
Now I know they fold to expose themselves,
to reveal a million tiny barbs, easily drawing blood.
