On the Mattole River
lies Whitethorn. A vast
127 acres of king-sized
hills. All rolling and open.
One particular hill
grows a five-leafed medicine.
Some claim that is where the heart
of the universe is buried.
But, to me,
it's just a labyrinth of
bat guano and wasp nests.
Whitethorn is a lie, because
no Goddess would ever
place her soul
in that concoction and expect
to be
clipped,
trimmed,
dried,
weighed,
sealed,
shipped,
plucked,
grinded,
rolled,
licked by fingers,
only to be passed from
mouth to mouth
all the while
burning away
silently and slowly.
-sonja lynn mata
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