A new poem by Joel LeBlanc.

Lamium purpureum

I found an old notebook
containing research for an article

I wrote nine years ago on Deadnettles.
On impulse, I googled it.

The words of my younger self echoed through
years, bold and clear and sure of himself,

lecturing me on anti-inflammatory flavonoids, the
effects of sesquiterpenes on microbial cell walls,

and chemical extraction processes to yield
active constituents from leaves.

The writing is assertive, scientific,
full of citations and sources,

but I remember wishing
I could’ve written about other things,

how this plant had older names:
Archangel, Lamia, and Devil’s Plaything.

It was fashioned into dark ointments, midwife poultices,
folk charms to protect against witchcraft,

and fresh salads, so you can taste the furry leaves,
the astringency that dries your throat,

before it’s grass-stained fingers reached
down to soothe your stomach,

and pull blood through kidneys,
like lunar threads.

Each spring, flowers rise from the frost
to dance for the feast of St Michael,

violet petals blushing like wood wives,
nectar on their tongues,

the smell of lingering ghost-soil
making us forget why botanists

named this plant after night hags
that stole children from cradles,

and flew off with them, owl-winged
and angry at god.

Deadnettles grow in every waste,
abandoned plot, graveyard, and

heartbroken slab of concrete,
like an epitaph for Lilith

scratched onto the ground:
don’t let them break you.