She grows in the basement. I planted her there
with care. My landlord is still quite unaware,
and that’s for the best. I need a place to sleep
that’s cheap while she blooms and her hair starts to creep
along the floor and walls like thin jungle vines
and twine. She will, once again, be mine –in time–
to hold and love and fight and, once again, slay.
I pray for her return. Why, just yesterday
I’d seen that her pieces had gotten bigger,
thicker than the chunks they were. So consider
the idea that killing her is a ritual:
spiritual yearning that’s continual
in its endless cycle. Love, lust, jealousy.
But we loath that envy, so we forcefully
dismember her and bring her here to regrow,
although today each of the limbs seem to show
some movement, as if from each part a being
will spring forth from it, maybe guaranteeing
it won’t be just the one of her. That won’t do.
It’s true I adore her – just the one. But two?
Or three? Or nine? They could overpower me.
They see the ease dismemberment can be.
I need to figure out what to do, and fast.
Each piece has already grown a face.
C.W. Lawrence is an undergrad at KSU, and will be finishing in Spring 2026 with a Bachelor’s in English. They currently live with their partner and their cat.