My Darling Belladonna

In my garden
there is a toxic plant
with an exotic name
I can’t remember

I bet it rhymes with
your name

nourished by my
infatuation

returning only the
burning pin-pricks
of your nettles.

I may be mistaken,
or perhaps even
misremembering
the flora, for it

may have been foxglove,
as the buds were
bell-shaped
like a summer dress.

I’m no botanist,
though I do recall the
breezy cotton
that clung to you,

complementing,
wicking the glisten
that occasionally beaded
upon your skin.

But enough about
my envy of your dress
and my craving for
your poisonous berries.

Perhaps it is best
that I don’t tend garden,
allowing the natural path

to be overgrown,
observing with a reverent,
passive joy

and suppressed yen,

especially
since I struggle
to know my foxglove
from my nightshade.

Besides,
I’d be done in
by your pollen

long before
the toxins took effect.
***