Clover

by Christian Ward

And, should I go, please let only clover spring like a Jack in the Box

from my body. Do not attract postcard-perfect roses. No buddleia

and their lances of flowers nosing the air. No orchids, please (do not be seduced

by the Dracula simia's monkey face). No bird of paradise flowers to origami

mourners' hearts into kittens. Let the humble clover go viral from my ribcage

until the plot is greener than a night bingeing on Attenborough. Let them slip

past couriers and food delivery guys, turning patches green while another slice

of pizza is slid down quicker than the finger on tonight's Netflix selection.

Let the nitrogen flow until the rarest of trees and flowers are blooming

and it is broadcast on television sets of Glasswing butterflies. Let the leafcutter

ants say this is a gift on the sails of leaves on their backs and for the rain

and the wind to know this is all I could give.