Ivy in Every Parallel Universe

I consider the ivy charming, even mysterious,

as it slowly kills the house. I tug on a vine to locate its source,

the tendrils divining rods. This parasite has grown into

a many-headed beast: cannibal plant with a thick furred trunk,

animal limb wrapped around the fence. I move fast

with my clippers between spring rainfalls, my feet

in standing water, a carpet of tangled ivy. My arms ache

from forcing the blades together, but I can’t stop

until I finish what I’ve started—destroying the quaint beauty

working its way up the siding to dissolve my home

from the outside. In the flooded dorm bathroom

she knelt underneath my skirt, me on tiptoe

like a ballerina, my palms flat against the wall. Our hair

curled from humidity like ivy, her tongue relentless like ivy,