In this poem, kudzu at first appears to be a purely constraining force, an overwhelming rush of plant that destroys any thresholds or in-betweenness by filling such space with itself, a point made both through the words themselves and through the image of paper-cut leaves covering them. The glass is always half full, or else it fills it. This, however, is complicated by the speaker’s comparison of kudzu’s growth to her own, away from houses presumably full of terrible memories in an “adopted cemetary”. Can there be any more liminal space than that? It encompasses not only the transition from life to death, since a graveyard is a place for ceremonies used to mark such a shift, but also a space in between belonging and not. The affection craved by the speaker from the kudzu after death, then, is in itself liminal or, at least, not uniformly smothering.