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."