by Kaylee Schofield
My love, in your hands I am
soft and liquid as honey
or, better, agar preparing for its maiden voyage
in a Petri dish
promising luxuriant growth to all manner of
cultures: botulinum, a skeletal hand
blooming across the plate;
Staphylococcus, a strange constellation
the bacteria winking their way
from wall to wall
Never a more vibrant garden
so quick to sprout
and the anthrax spores, did I mention
how under the lab lights
you could almost mistake them
for sunflowers
Kaylee J. Schofield (she/her/hers) lives by a decommissioned nuclear power plant with her partner, three pets, and a host of harmless spiders. Her poetry has appeared in Dunes Review, Wild Roof Journal, La Piccioletta Barca, and others. She was a finalist for the 2022 Honeybee Prize in Fiction. Find her on Instagram @colormepaisley.