Salvinia Molesta

How far will they swim, grappling outward for more?

Their coils climb upward too, into chains,

and downward underwater, their filamentous fronds twist

in egg-shaped sporocarps.

Miles and miles of them diving and driving.

Eventually, they block sunlight from everything below

and fish burn in hunger and scum.

I often watched Frank Quattrone through the glass

in his office, he liked speakerphone—

talked to walls, his desk, wisterias and wild asters outside.

His striped shirt with the good

seams, always pressed. Sometimes he picked up the putter

while talking. What patience

he had putting the pocked ball into the machine over and over.

I wanted a blue shirt.

I wanted objects but not their shadows. I wanted a house

with a field of lawn, blades

and weeds growing in all directions. What if what had

happened could happen again?