On the Fear of Raising My Hand

I have seen saplings hatching from sieves
in boulders     or snaking their spindly 
trunks up through layers of talus

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last week I saw a grass tuft sprung
out of a brick wall      and four
stories up       and I wondered

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how some thrive on hard nothingness
when you are a seed you have no choices
and what more is a word than a seed?

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some plants are invasive and 
terrible     everyday I hear something
that clubs my bloody heart

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too often I’ve watched others eat
my dreams     so I quit 
praying out loud   I swallowed

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so many thoughts     they fucked 
and multiplied      do you know the feeling 
of cracking    the bones 

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of someone you love with your 
stony words?      a raindrop becomes 
a teardrop     or an ocean      or a salty drop

 

of sweat or skin or fruit or the juice 
of an orange     once I blew fire 
from my throat and burning

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bushes sprouted up all around
an invasive maze enveloped me
square stems birthed     unholy blistery

 

branches which reached for my cheeks
from the soil roots uncoiled like rope 
but none of them spoke