The Weed

by Sarah Rose Nordgren

The weed wants so much
to hurt like an animal

but he is simple
and can only keep track

of one goal at a time. An ugly
and agitated shadow circles him—

it is the horses stamping
at the end of their wits,

letting their swarmed eyes
be lashed by the others’ tails.

I am always becoming as you
have need of me to be,

says Jesus, and the weed
may as well be saying it.

Like lovers finishing
each other’s sentences

the two have grown

They even dress alike
these days, since each

has sheathed one of his many
blades in tender purple.

SARAH ROSE NORDGREN is the author of Best Bones, winner the Agnes Lynch Starrett Prize, which will be published by the University of Pittsburgh Press in the fall of 2014. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Agni, The Iowa Review, Pleiades, Harvard Review, Ploughshares, and The Best New Poets anthology. She grew up in Durham, North Carolina, and lives in Cincinnati. For more information visit