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Leaves of Three, Let It Be // Michelle Yost

My friend had a poison ivy leaf
tattooed behind her left ear,
catching her nape only by the rigid ink stem.

Not real poison ivy, which leeches
to the skin through thick petals,
coiling like clay to reach the back of her ankles.
The trinity rested in her hair,
crowning her with a scar that told me
that she had once

with half-lidded eyes, lit behind with greed,
chased murky clusters of mulberry
sparkling in the shrill sun.

She found herself reaching further
into the heavy, lopping thicket.
Her tiny feet wine-bathed,

stained plum. She had found herself
fully entwined with the glossy weed,
already scratching at the furious blossoms

erupting on her flesh.
And every time I see her tattoo
I wonder if she bathed in oatmeal

letting quiet steam ease the rash
rash actions fetched.
I wonder if she ever held between

blotted index and thumb
a metal spoon;
the most painful of all sensations.

I wonder who called that weed
an ivy, which clings innocently
to broad brick walls

like lovers who caress, clink, and hold together,
who think nature is pure and are told
so often to trust.