Leah Harmon

watering the wild carrot

you walk by and see only my pretty lace 
not surprising, you all are so hasty;
it may be the things of old ladies
peering out the window as they sip their tea
but queen anne’s lace is nothing like a doily
it is as a snowflake, cool and complicated;
hairy stems look soft to the touch
but it is all illusions.
Be careful which piece
of my garden you choose
to put your hasty fingers on
leaves could irritate skin
so go ahead ladies fill your bellies
there are vast gardens in a woman’s womb.
I’m not filled with poison
just enough potency
to make your uterus slippery
slice at the stem
put it in your parlors
match embroidered curtains
don’t bother to dig deeper
you never do.
You lack the patience to learn what your everyday is made of,
I’ve had to gather my history from the wind
wait for it to come my way
wait for it to rustle, call attention to itself.
You have resources.
Rain falls on it’s purple/black center
all it’s tiny flowers
pops of brightness.


 watering the celery roots, the hemlocks

 think you can spot it?
They are so similar
to the untrained eye.
One draws blood,
one draws last breaths.
Like umbrellas
from watercolor paintings,
so many on a rainy day.
Little drops of rain hit
each center like freshly fallen snow
or like a little pin prick of blood.
When my flowers start to die
flipped umbrellas in a wind storm
until they curl like a cup.
Rain falls through each little lacy hole,
my many flowers.
You can eradicate choices
with rules and regulations
but you could never eradicate a weed.


                                                                                                                                     nanny in the library

moles on her face
size of teardrops
arranged with gravity
with movement like water
her hair, long, black
a shining waterfall
of black mole tears
and hair, river long.
“Shoosh, callate.” she says gently
to the children in the library
her eyes are black, as wet
as water, and she carried
them a long way from home,

woman at bar stool

big pink flowers, green parrots
around her shoulders, her head
yellow light, follows her
when she walks
“I was waiting,
for someone to notice,”
she replied when confronted,
things she took with her
from home.  When she sat
on the tall bar stool,
Wally’s Step Children bouncing
jazz, funk, inside the three-story
brick building,
yellow quieted, parrots
hiding in the leaves
that cropped up, knowing
this city was far from where
they came.



Leah Harmon is a poet, musician, and song writer. She works in
the Brookline school system. She has written two chapbooks.