Sorrow espaliered across the width of my body—the unruly sun
manages to cast light on it. I suppose that necessitates a thank you,
moss grows best in shade—would my sorrow have grown into something
unspeakable, something you only glance at for a moment before your
stomach ties itself in knots with pity?
A paradigm of a body—bruised, broken, and bent;
the wounds are telling, even in this abundance of green & sun,
their refusal to heal is tantamount to a state of constant regret.
They become tubers, storing trauma under skin, overwintering easily
but do not generate new roots, and instead permanently store
the pain. I accept, and acknowledge this—
there will come a day when I can weed myself to the point
being a heart-shaped meadow in a quiet existence,
only blooming flowers we planted.
