Memoirs of the Witches’ Broom

Happiness is the right parasite,
Said the one with the wild head of hair,

Tall, neither old nor young exactly,
Practically green with vitality,

Child-proportioned giant, awkward-limbed.
It’s a world of pests. Get one that can

Save you from reproduction, save you
From aging, and save you from yourself!

I was just a little mustard girl,
Before all the bugs got into me.

Next thing I knew, I grew large and strong,
And immune to what I used to be—

Had no interest in being pretty,
No interest in blossoming or seeds.

I was happy to grow out my leaves.
Happy when all my little friends died

Ahead of me, long ahead of me,
Exhausted by pushing out flowers,

Foolish things. They called me a zombie
When the vampires crawled all over me.

And still I only grew more robust—
And wilder and more disheveled, see?

You can’t live without some parasites.
Don’t kid yourself. But given suckers

Will always find you, wish for the best.
Don’t age. Forget sex. Go on. Like me.