by Amanda Russell
Mending with Milkweed (a documentary-style poem in 10 parts)
1.
A mermaid doll
dropped in an empty driveway—
sightless eyes turned to the cloudless sky.
When will the child realize
what’s missing?”
2.
Seeing a kaleidoscope of Monarchs butterflies around the lantana bush as big as my grandmother’s red car was as normal as the mail delivery back in the early ‘90s in red-dirt east Texas. But by 2021, I hardly saw them anywhere. I hoped the difference was because back then each summer day was as long as one day in heaven. I thought the difference was all the uprooting that moved me from then & there to now & an hour north of New York City.
To prevent the disappearance of milkweed, New Hampshire residents harvested and turned in local pods of milkweed to the Department of Transportation. The seeds were then scattered in conservation corridors along highways.
The following summer, my family and I relocated to New Hampshire. I called my mom, Milkweed is everywhere up here, growing along the highway and in the fields and along parking lots and streets.
King and queen enthroned among weeds.
3. August 24, 2022 (Enfield, NH)
I was cooking macaroni and cheese
and counting down the last few days
of summer break when my neighbor texted me:
Two chrysalises just turned into butterflies.
Bring your kids over before they take wing.
It took us an hour
to get from our boiling kitchen
to the quiet square of her porch
though we share a wall.
In 1915, our houses put their palms together.
Pray we do the same.
4. I was
watching for the school bus; buying ketchup; checking Instagram; reading Jim Harrison; taking out the trash; avoiding people; slicing apples; losing hope; telling the kids it’s time to go;
swallowing birth control; typing an email; checking the calendar; loosening my jaw; taking a shower; packing lunches; missing friends; walking the dog; watering marigolds; washing plates; reading the news; breathing in; talking my heart down from the rails of a bridge—
from my daughter’s finger, a monarch butterfly takes flight into a partly cloudy sky
5. I hope Mother Earth does not forget the shape of this thought
I called my friend with dementia
because time doesn’t move backwards.
She taught me about seeds
and what to do with them. And today,
her voice— as if Time had slipped her a secret
and she was spilling it right into my ears.
There was room
on her face for a smile, so I said:
I thought of you yesterday when
I was running late
to pick up Little Bear from preschool.
At the empty lot on Main Street
across from the Stop and Shop
gas station, I parked the car
because you taught me about seeds
and what to do with them.
I crossed the street
holding all my hope
inside a paper bag.
And I spread it
around because the forecast
was for snow and even now
the ground may be
inaccessible, but you taught me
about hope
and what to do with it.
6. The War Against Futility
Stalks of milkweed uprooted along the drive. I pulled over, collected them. Steeped them in a bucket of cool water and clear shade, but the damage was deeper.
7. The Very Hungry Caterpillar, a Retelling
When I am drinking coffee, they are eating milkweed.
When I am buttering toast, they are eating milkweed.
When I am drinking water, they are eating milkweed.
When I am ordering pizza, they are eating milkweed.
When I am serving each child a different snack, they are eating milkweed
because milkweed is all monarch caterpillars can eat.
8. Pocket Guide & Explanations:
• Collect milkweed seed pods from local fields not treated with pesticides.
• Harvest pods when they are brown and split open, in their state of offering.
• Leave most of the pods on the plant for natural dispersion.
• Plant and grow only native species
– because plants are a map.
– because only native species go dormant at the right times. Dormancy
prevents parasites
from congregating on leaves
which caterpillars hatch into this world to eat.
Damage will go undetected until the butterfly ecloses
from its chrysalis with
twisted wings,
unable to fly and
therefore,
dies.
9. November 16, 2022 (Enfield, NH)
Two days before the first snow—late
as it was for a first snow— I never completed my walk
to the mailbox.
In the air,
in the grass,
in the street—
milkweed seeds
in their parachutes, lifting
everything they need.
I filled my pockets
with the miracles abounding.
All these seeds landing
on lawns will be mowed down;
all these seeds landing
in the streets
will get nowhere; all these seeds
need a home.
I placed them along the sunniest side of my house.
10. Mending with Milkweed
Empty pods are all that’s left.
The entire future spills out
holding nothing
back.
Author Amanda Russell (she/her/hers) is an editor at The Comstock Review and a Library Specialist. Her poems have appeared or will appear in Hole in the Head Re:View, Lily Poetry Review, and Pirene’s Fountain. Her second poetry chapbook, PROCESSING, is available from Main Street Rag (2024). More of her work can be found on her website https://poetrussell.wordpress.com.
Artist Shae Meyer was born in the shadows of the Rocky Mountains in Boulder CO. After moving to New York City he began working in studios producing large scale paintings for artists there, while developing his own processes. He now resides in Troy, NY where he paints, and grows plants.
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