The Unthinkable Botanical Gardens by Travis Smith via Crazyhorse

Nature is just one
disaster after another: flowering

quince, then lemon balm, then
purple ruffled basil. Past the bamboo

grove, past the mammoth
sunflowers, I wandered

in a controlled manner.
I didn’t want to become

a victim. That’s what the giant sign
on the garden gate said: DON’T BECOME

A VICTIM! SOME OF THE VICTIMS
MAY ACTUALLY BE SUSPECTS.

I didn’t want to become a suspect.
I didn’t want to become a Japanese

apricot or columbine
or camellia or aster— merely

to observe, from the path,
their intoxicating exteriors,

all the trellises bugged.
The reflecting pools monitored.

More signs warned me:
DO NOT PROPAGATE INVASIVES!

HELP US KEEP OUT EXOTIC WEEDS!
and I wanted to help, so I kept on checking

the bottoms of my shoes, kept inspecting my bag
in case seeds of torpedo grass

or chamber bitter had tried
to sneak in with me.

I wanted to help, but then
I felt the terraced ferns loom down,

I felt the blooming myrtles stare,
seeing me for the invasive that I was,

but it was already too late:
the buds and suckers and spores

were thronging me already,
in my blood and my breath,

had thronged me from the start,
and I was naked in the garden,

the unthinkable had happened,
and every stowaway in me was free.