Time is silky. It is iridescent & mossy green.
It curls under your tongue. We are all hiding
where we can.
I need to plant more seeds. That’s not a metaphor.
I need to tell my father I’m moving to Honolulu.
There’s always something in the way.
I mean the world is on fire. Still not a metaphor.
I don’t think I’ve ever used a metaphor correctly.
I’m trying to awaken something. The way
it feels in your mouth to say Cy Twombly.
What am I shaking loose? Have you noticed
the way empty pistachio shells look like tiny
raptor mouths?
I am so full of questions. What can you do with leftover
couscous? Is the ocean ok? Could we shift toward
tender monuments? To things that coo, or any flowering?
I drove across the country & back to save my plants
in New York. I was stopped entering California,
told my plants have to go. There was something wrong
with the dirt, it could spread if not contained.
There is no end. To what a living world. Will demand of you.¹
In the middle of the desert in one-hundred &
twenty degrees, I am screaming.
Or I think I am screaming. I think of Hannah,
of the first prayer as eruption.
They want to take my plants away.
How can I tell these officers I can’t lose them
that I’ve already lost so much.
I’m talking about miscarriage.
Dear reader,
I was trying to be subtle.
Can you imagine?
I am standing on a border in a heatwave
in a desert surrounded by officers,
desperately clinging to my houseplants
& screaming there is nothing wrong
with their dirt,
is this not the metaphor?
I tried to bury loss inside language
but language too must breathe.
If wild.
If flower.
I was worried for your comfort.
Worried I might lose you too,
at this hour,
in this poem.
They tell me if I really loved my plants I would’ve gotten
them the right papers. If I really loved them, I would’ve
named them. But I’ve learned not to name what I’m not sure
will survive.
I’m struck by how many men hate agapanthus.
Without its blossom it can be mistaken for a weed.
It must be translated to be seen.
We’ve reached a new vulnerability.
I mean it’s Tuesday or really any day.
I hold my plants close. Cup my hands
around my tiny sprouts whispering,
Do not rush, not into this world
It takes 9 months to grow a single head of garlic.
As I mince each clove I think
I am a brute destroying a miracle.
Erin Mizrahi is a writer, teacher, collaborator and co-founder of Cobra Milk. Erin is author of the forthcoming chapbooks To What End: (Ethel Press 2026) and I’m Doing My Best To Make Everything Holy (Faint Line Press 2026), as well as co-author of the micro-chapbook, If We Break, Where We Break, How We Break (Ghost City Press 2023). Erin holds a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature and Media from USC. Their writing has appeared in Bending Genres, Hunger Mountain, Oroboro, Rogue Agent and elsewhere.