She beckons me into the apothecary,
shows me the claw of a cat,
a silver feathered hat,
a goose’s foot.
Argentina Anserina: silverweed.
I go to the wasteland
where it has kneaded itself
into the gravel like a cat,
its nexus of stolons
umbilcaling sons and daughters,
yellow flowers like small fireworks
on the borders of the labyrinth
where soft shoes tread:
the pointed boots of witches
then the man who lived on a square of land
by grinding its roots into bread.
No need for plantage.