Dusk crumples our yellow
into tissue fingers
sticky with scents of spice and mulch;
each night we see our young
creak, swell, yearn
for the sky’s gleam.
Once, through a furze
of erect hairs, we saw plump slugs
trail over their bodies;
sometimes a hand reaches
into our prickled canopy,
takes some of them to another place.
We hear whispers of ‘soup’ and ‘stew’
but refuse to imagine; we still dream
of reaching the light.
Once, a woman chose us
instead of candles for her table,
she lifted us close to her face,
the nearest we have been to love.