i go to the graveyard to talk to dirt.
plant mood rings beneath
the sycamore trees & ring pops
in circles around the baby burial markers.
return is a bread crumb trial.
what of myself will i break off
to find my way back to the oven.
i walk with so many halves.
a half a spirit. a half a gender.
a half an eye. the other half, living
with the worms & dreaming of granite.
here, the fields sleep with seeds
in their chests. soon everything will burst
& we will forget about the darkness.
well, not me. i am always trying to coax
a dead girl from a batch of weeds.
i am always telling her, "you do not need
to be so dead." instead of hearing me,
she swallows coal. lights mailboxes on fire.
takes a knife to the center of her palm
& draws a circle. the orbits we must sew.
here in the kitchen
the spearmint plant believes in restoration.
washing my face in the mouth
of a passing monster. he says,
"you look familiar." i tell him,
"this is my house." we are standing
in the midst of an ancient crossroads.
where the sun gets a foothold
& the crows shed their genders
like silk gloves.