Gillian Osborne is a writer and educator, trained as a scholar of 19th-c. American and environmental literature. Her current interests include plants, hills, soil, mothers, children, ritual, proximate wildernesses, and play. She is the author of Green Green Green (Nightboat, 2021) .

apologia

i took apart my body and laid it on the hill—

hands grubbing by the gopher holes
legs flush with adrenalin where birds

were busy at a feeder—the rest
further off, midway, scattered—

the experiment was whether
each part could perform its function

without reference to the whole—
could the tongue become a worm

the eyes, shed layerings like beans
shucking off their color

for generic green—
could feet become beholden, roots—

and might coming apart like that
be more accurate than speaking—

as when you say where are you
the only answer is around, among

when you say what was i doing
surrounded by such monotony

i could say, those were your parts
keeping time, no one could gather them

rather then I’m sorry you are alone

violet

why is this flower saying the same thing over and over
like it doesn’t believe i’m listening     i’m listening

i love this story where we are both transplanted into shade