POEM · BOTANICAL DEFENSE
Break the euphorbia. The wound whitens. It bleeds a milk thick enough to promise what milk has always promised. Touch it. Skin rises in red islands. The mouth fills with metal and fire. A careless thumb to the eye turns the eye into a room with the lights kicked out. When the lights return, they hurt. No fang. No chase. The plant does not need to cross the distance. It waits where it was rooted, water stored against drought, the white sap sealed behind the same green skin. Goat. Beetle. Pruning knife. The hand easing it from a pot gone tight. The sap cannot tell the blade from the careful hand. It has one answer for every opening. By morning, the broken stem has sealed itself. The drop on the glove has dried almost clear. Nothing in the room looks violent. This is what the plant knows: when you cannot run, make the wound travel. Make even your blood fucking dangerous.