calling the weeds

"i do not know where my legs are,"
i tell the weeds in the yard. they put their tongues 
to the ground. wallow in their old flowers. 
i ask them for advice when i know
i am gone. when there is no salvaging 
my fingers from the finger trap
i have placed them in. the weeds understand
what it feels like to be hopeless. 
they do not say platitudes. instead, they are
grief machines. they say, "why is there
no ice cream cone god?" & "how could we 
become this hungry?" i feed them sugar
until they die. this is the only version 
of love that i know. when it's dandelion time
sometimes i find my face turning lion. 
i find myself yellow as yellow can be. my teeth
like staircases. roots in my throat. the weeds
tangled in bundles. cordage for climbing
out of the window. i get my cheekbones 
carved from stone. i always end up wanting
to pull up all the weeds but not like other people.
i want to bring them inside & lay them out on the floor.
count their fingers. find enough numbers
to make a neighbor or if i'm lucky,
a self. i do not let my hands go. i close the screen door.
weep for the weeds. wish i could grow
like they do. from the other side of the door
they whisper, "you can, you can, and you can."
there are things they don't understand
but for a moment i pretend they are right.