I couldn’t wait to share their name with my grandson,
who rolled the sounds around his tongue and giggled,
jumped up from his jigsaw puzzle suddenly needing
to pee, yelling bladderwort, bladderwort!
They’re seldom noticed in our state park, unlike
their rare and heavenly cousin, Venus Fly Trap,
queen of carnivorous plants, whose dainty pink
vulnerability headlines all the brochures,
nectar oozing from her leaves
irresistible to flies, ants, beetles.
Common bladderworts took a different route –
not willing to shrivel in the coast’s parched soil,
they learned eons ago
to slip below boggy lakes and ponds, open
their sacs and snap shut on aquatic worms
and water fleas. Nourished, their orchid-like blooms rise
as though floating above the swamp.
When should I tell my grandson how long it took
bladderworts to evolve their plan, how little time
we have left for ours? He’s back to his puzzle,
nudges the last crest of blue ocean
beside the curve of California, then gives me
a high five and cries, No missing pieces!
This poem first appeared in Kakalak (2024).
—
Joanne Durham is the author of To Drink from a Wider Bowl, winner of the Sinclair Poetry Prize (Evening Street Press, 2022) and the chapbook, On Shifting Shoals (Kelsay Books, 2023). Her poetry appears in Poetry South, Banyan Review, Feral, Vox Populi and numerous other journals and anthologies. She lives on the North Carolina coast, with the ocean as her backyard and muse. Visit her at www.joannedurham.com.
