When anger made her strong
she'd take a lethal-looking scythe
and rush the tall lantana ramparts,
slashing till she fell inert,
bronzed arms scribbled vivid red,
impulsive hands disarmed by hurt.
Behind the rank, serrated tangle
there was not a soul to tell
the loneliness and sorrow to.
Beyond the monstrous, writhing
mass that walled her spirit in,
doomed as a lady lost in hostile woods,
perhaps release: familiar rooms;
forgotten warmth; a tempering
of harshness; ease... she'd breach
the cordon, barbed with nests
of snakes, before it broke her will.
Her children, aching, watched, and knew
despite her seeming disbelief,
that by the time her blisters healed
the lantana would grow threefold -
true to bedside tales of dragons -
multiplying scaly snouts
to mock the woman's reaping-hook
for every head that rolled.