mulberry banana bread

 

in the dirt the flower grows roots on both planes

extending beyond the main vessel, the trajectory of the planting

broadening into something separate over there

 

did we give birth together?

 

your natal season of communication—faces like a manifold of cedar, rose

tinted finger-sized bottles:

oils stowed by a book or leaf on each of your shelves

 

living alone lately I scrape the underbelly of my larger toenails every time I step out of the shower

 

I am upset when I cannot

 

I am wrapped in a grey towel when the thinnest veil of my outer body

slips off onto the linoleum

I am wet when I scour a once neglected afterthought

(for 23 years I could not extend my left pinky toe because I did not recognize that it existed)

 

with frantic diligence I think I am just too intense for the space we hold between us to be effortless

I could not press against a fear of my irritation

because I did not recognize that it existed—endured love

 

I do not mind the smell of your cat’s pee

laughably enough—floating on the water or planted in the rocks the roots pull downward

 

solely

 

a heavy headed flower grows hunched eventually

to gaze at her own seed

 

we moved—through always getting along

some grave visitor has choked the lovable parts in each of us

blackened irises

sick smoke, an older seed of an orphan cascading her pain like ripples of fire and then quieted

again, the cat pressing into your leg

 

all of us

 

soft enough to drop sweet mulberries into the bread