ashley o’neil

He’ll Try and Ruin This in a Sermon

In my garden, I can’t bear the cull,

So

I weed sparingly.

Only when the horsnettles-

tooth green

block the thyme, do I grab gloves and shears.

Who am I to decide

       what potential

                             gets a chance

and what gets pulled

      from its roots?

I feel the richness that comes from

       chaotic soil. 

Before you ask, I’ll tell you.

Don’t

try to find a meaning that isn’t here.

And if you insist

anyway,

take this from my mouth.

First and final bloom

all feel the ache of being arranged

for

      our moral benefit.

It is a weight and

                        a burden

that decision.

How dare

we pretend

that it’s anything

different.