Rooms

The night opened up for her like a bewitched gravesite, animation and acclimation. The dead were rising from between cracks in the asphalt, spindle pricks of magic opened the eyes of night-blooming jasmine. Green stretched, and flower buds yawned with stamin tongues exposed, petals ruffled like hair after a long night spent in the wrong bed. Pamela Isley walked down a Gotham sidewalk, and Earth held the hand of its mother through every street. The greenery was small, nothing monumental or destructive. A few blades of grass rising out of a gutter, a vine creeping up the brickwall of a dive as she walked past. The open door played Son of a Preacher Man from some jukebox, and the bouncer did a double-take when the woman in form-fitting black and green stalked by. Moments later and the street was alive with another kind of life, whispers and speculation in the street: Was that Poison Ivy? Was she back again?