knowing knotweed

by joey friedman

in september’s fall equinox glow,

the luscious first days of the harvest moon, 

knotweed is a playground of queer joy. 

our bodies, dripping with water from the salmon brook,

weave through the knotweed canopy growing along the silty shore,

the paper thin droplet seeds drape into dapples of summer sunshine

like frog eggs swimming in the light. 

this is to say, 

who is to say knotweed doesn’t belong? 

who knows. 

months later, december’s knotweed is a burnt orange ghost forest:

bare, barely recognizable. 

it belongs in the way that i once cracked its lanky stem with one hand

just to show someone i loved its hollow structure, 

which led to blushing, and laughter. 

and now i see that orange ghost forest and think of blushing, and laughter. 

it belongs in the way that knotweed can be used to treat long lyme disease.

in the way that there is so much around us, always, that we do not understand yet, 

and there is so much love around us that we do not feel yet. 

this is to say, 

who is to say knotweed doesn’t belong? 

who knows. 

all i know how to do is walk in the woods and bend my body

into the shapes of the trees i see around me in a dance 

of impossibly gnarled roots. 

i don't understand much other than this: if you breathe in, 

just as a gust of wind blows, you breathe in wind and then

you’re a little bit made of wind, 

wind and water and 

i read you could be bits of what has been or may become

a hummingbird, or a rat, or maybe one of those red and black bugs

crawling all around burlington. 

this is all to say, 

who knows?

art by joey friedman