Poetry by H. E. Casson

              ​Kevin Doncaster CC



Untended

Poetry demands
That I pretend
That we were seeds

That we were dropped and scattered far 
From the flowers that had shed us
From the people who had bred us

Caught in winds
And wings of birds
And treads of shoes
And shaken loose

Left to grow
Like mistletoe
Unintended

What a pretty gauze to lay
What a pretty way to say:

We were five kids 
In a group home
Unattended

And poetry dictates it
That I do not say my sleeves
Like glue
Stuck to my arms
That they tugged away at scars
That they grew as red as mars
Unlamented

It was June
When seeds were roots
And petal knew the sun for food
I crawled up on the group home roof
I transcended

And the yard was overgrown
Sewn with weeds that were once seeds
Standing solid
Eight feet tall
A perfect cushion should I fall
Should I trip and slip and fall
Should I lose my grip and fall

Just next door 
The grass was trimmed
Every flower in its home
And a boy sat on a bench
With his knees up to his chin
Like a fence to hold him in

In his hands
I could see words
That he’d carried from the house
Carried from his father’s mouth
That were neither good nor kind
That he held up to his mind
Where they planted
Where they vined
Where they blended

So we talked
And planted words
Better than the ones he’d heard
Of a future that was safe
That was splendid

(Then it ended)

His father, he complained
And we’d never spoke again
But the weeds and I remained

Untended

​

H. E. Casson lives in a very small house in Toronto with one human, one half-sized stuffed Chewbacca, and about a dozen plants. Their words have recently been shared by Angst, Ghost Heart Literary Journal, Tealight Press, and poetically magazine. They can be found at hecasson.com and @hecasson on Twitter.

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