A lover runs her hands through my beard and flowers bloom from the curls.
A kiss planted firmly on the forehead grows an eden along my corpus callosum.
We tangle under bedsheets and fruit grows in the folds where our bodies connect.
A hug cups a seed like a newborn baby. An apple tree branches from interlocked
fingers and a body turns into a forest and a heart turns into another seed and a
body becomes richer soil and the process repeats and we think it’s all pink backdrops
and smiles until the seasons change and a branch falls and the apple tree splits
in half from the shockwave of two hands pulling apart like split atoms and a hug
cups an old seed like a stillborn and the bed turns to weeds ‘cuz the fruits ain’t
getting watered no more and a phantom kiss cracks a forehead open and now
two sides of the brain ain’t thinking together and logic and emotion ain’t agreeing
and art sounding like a dying flower now and a old lover runs her hands through
my beard and her fingers come out cut ‘cuz almost all roses grow thorns to
protect their beauty but thats kind of ironic ‘cuz the protection takes away
from the appeal or something like that and this is all kind of ironic honestly
‘cuz I started this poem talking about how the body is the perfect soil to grow
love in and now I’m talking about all the ways my body can’t nurture a seed
and it don’t sound too hopeful in delivery but my family comes from a long
lineage of people who learned how to grow from any soil. When I was young,
my grandmother would take me out back every weekend to help tend her garden.
We would dig a hole in the dirt no deeper than begging palms and drop a group
of seeds in. She said you need affection to grow a flower so we would take our
fingers and massage the seeds into the land, bury them inside the begging palms
and baptize them in water. Our backyard started out a graveyard and my grandmother
turned it into a greenhouse, taught me how to love the soil enough to grow a garden.