02/18

germination

we hung the seed chandelier 
in the red room with no other furniture.
went to stare at it in the morning
& before bed as a kind of worship.
you always told me you didn't believe
in religion but all humans harbor 
a need to pray. i'd seen how well
you could kneel. your mouth opened for me
like a halfed bell pepper, hollowed & holding
onto your own private air. 
our stems green-ached all night,
knowing the fixture swung in secret.
did you wake up in the middle of the night
to check its progress? i did. barefoot. 
thought of eloping alone. is that still
eloping? yes, because i would take
the chandelier with me. hand it from
the roof of my mouth & wait patiently
for the growing. once, in the bathroom
i saw you prune your hair of leaves.
i told you, "why don't you keep them"
& you scowled like i was speaking in roots.
our bed turns to soil. i have to
shovel you out each day. this is not what
a house looks like. or, maybe, i was mislead 
about what our future would be 
with the seeds waiting a room away.
i hear their coiled thoughts: red / ripe /
august / knife / never / near / not me / not me /
you can't tell me we aren't parishioners.
i come again as dawn is blinking in the back window. 
lay on my back & stare up at the knot 
of white button seeds. tiny pendants. 
if i could where them in strands like beads,
witness the first opening against my skin. 
yes. i'll be too-close sun. blaze
& call for eyelids. we have taught each other
new ways to shut. here is my knob 
& my crook. a room away you're sinking deeper.
becoming a seed yourself. i could never
have stopped you. wash my trowels
with my spoons. shout from the red room
"wake up! wake up! 
you're missing them." 

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