Vetch

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Pulling vetch out of the thyme
velcro-fingered cleavers clinging
borage and bees for company
I rack my brain for that one word
in Spanish that manages to
hold this feeling in its palm.
It isn’t satisfactorio,
enriquecedor, or realizador.
I am, as they would say,
walking on the branches
dragging fingertips across
the cliffs and valleys of the bark
but never quite holding the trunk.
It was a funny Sufi woman with
stained buck teeth who sold buttons;
she used the word once
when I gave her a ride
and it struck me but never
fully stuck. Unless
I made it up.

Pulling chickweed and
pallitory-on-the-wall
out of the land’s most farflung lips
there is the orange-black striped slither
of escalopendra through the grass
each leg a scorpion’s sting,
and there are
hundreds of them.
I wait in the hammock for it to pass
and root around in the archives
worm-embroidered
laced as dead leaves
in search of the match that
kindled this joy. It must
be a word for every
dirt-nailed dervish
hitch-hiking seeker
wild food forager
punctured by needles
from cardoons and nettles
hunting on still
ungloved.

Pulling pink-tipped white
earthsmoke out from
the charcoal of sodden earth
– to slice and douse in vinegar
and steep and strain and dose with –
this word buzzes round my head
bumbling about its business.
It is a word that predates
dictionaries, anyone
who digs enough will know
what it feels like
before the mouth
has had its way with it.
Orange blossoms. Nectar deep in
berryish buds burst
to pale trumpets: the smell
insists you close your eyes
the better to inhale it.

I can live without
knowing how
that word went.
The feeling is
enough.

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