I plunge my fists into the moist earth,
branches of a fallen man, mildew green
teeth gnawing at the impossibility of love,
ancient child of rumination, cris-crossed
star-gazers lost in the blush of a serpentine
moon. To see clearly, a man must chew
his own heart; to hear seismic songs,
he must not catch up to his own shadow.
Water reflects only one kind of truth,
this thin veneer of the lost and hopeless.
My father said it best when he said:
“One day you will turn to dust, crumble
like the greatest of monuments, the earth
will embrace you in your sad corruption.”
The body is a vessel, sure, rudderless,
cutting through time and air, leaving
the memory of its passing on the backs
of the leaves. My fists sprout gardenias
as white as my tongue, as gorgeous
as my moonlit skin, this fire-hue of clarity.