a single popcorn kernel 

my popcorn tree bursts each morning
with all its limbs of kernels
turning white & soft. i sit underneath
to watch. little shells raining down 
like insect carapaces. i think 
of the popcorn machine we had when i was little:
a small spitting device. catching 
the popcorn, sound of each kernel 
meeting bowl. we filled whole rooms,
with popcorn, my brother & i, & laid
in the mounds. popcorn crunching 
beneath our bodies. what else carries
the same magic? the truth is 
i planted the popcorn tree for a past self
who i needed to entertain. i set 
a pair of shoes in front of the tree
& wait for her to arrive. she stands 
like an obelisk. she is amused
by the popping. nearby, a movie theater
is sitting like the carcass of a whale
at the bottom of the ocean. fish gnaw
at its windows. an invisible film
is playing all over. no no, i won't say
we are all actors because we are certainly not
but we do pass by scenes every 
time & time again. just a few days ago
i saw a man feeding geese in a parking lot 
& that was likely the opening moment. 
the credit screen rolls
each night before the stars. kernels reform 
into their amber selves. i tuck my knees into my chest
in the hopes that i too might 
grow a shell, no matter how thin
or rupturable. there are people on this earth
who have killed other people & they also 
eat popcorn & some of them even know
about how to plant a popcorn tree. most of us
have a self who has done terrible things.
i am trying to not make a kernel 
of him. i tell him to sit & watch the tree
un-bloom. i wrap him in celophane
to keep him from going stale.
see, without butter. popcorn just tastes
like air. the holy spirit. maybe that's
too far. i eat the air or the popcorn
from my own handfuls. a single kernel
hovers in ever doorway. the movie theater
was a mirage or a monster. i put the old shoes
back in the closet until tomorrow.