epsom salt bath, a moist soil,

my transparent shower curtain is a garden bag

 

specters of water splatter dry like salty tears

 

now that I am a year older

I am at eye level with the smallest of grey mountains

 

I surrender an idea that I know the next valley

but I can carry seeds

 

I too was a seed, a seed even when my mother was a seed

toted in the pocket of nana’s ovary

 

perhaps this is why I am obsessed with calendars

the compulsion has not faded but I am a little wiser

 

planning is not foreseeing

and to perform foreseeing is to not reckon with living

 

I planted squash with you under a summer moon

it has grown in two directions

 

a buoyant flower, peeling back, aroused

and fruit is the weight,

 

it strikes the soil, it is nourishment

it is your stillness humming with what must be your soul

 

on the far of my bed on the ground