wildscape. literary journal

Stem Mother
by Amelia L. Williams

Trumpet honeysuckle bugles forth,
hummingbirds arrive with blender sounds 
to feed at the coral blooms. We have moved 

to this neighborhood also; leaves begin 
to curl. We are the stem mothers, clustered
at leaf nodes to suck sap. We have carried
 
our daughters within our bodies; they too 
carry their daughters. We birth them all
alive & ready. Some observers call this 

telescoping generations. This is not 
about your human psychology, how
your mother told you to keep your legs

together. It’s not an antique set 
of painted tea dolls. I’m here to tell you 
the nicknames do not sit well with us: 

ant cow or plant lice. We aphids, legion, 
develop wings when vine, bark, root, or fruit
get crowded, hatch a late summer squadron 

of males so there will be eggs. Exalted 
family. Our cousins spin waxy coats 
fuzzed like wool; be awed by their rhythmic

faerie flutter, absent a breeze. 
On our mother’s side we claim gall makers—
adelgids who coax a host to build 

a hollow home for their wintering. We
emit whatever sounds frighten lacewing, 
ladybeetle, or wasp, exude honeydew & 

waxy threads that ward against your hose 
& soap. Baltic amber proves we made it
through the Triassic. We carry our daughters.

about the author // Amelia L. Williams