SWORDFERN
Rooted, I used to think.

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Friday, Apr. 09, 2004 @ 3:54 pm
Anti-Sacrifice



Like firecrackers, like popcorn, five little brown mice shoot from my hand into the lily-of-the-valley. A star-shaped flash of twitching leaves radiates around me as the mice begin their first adventure.

It is a full moon. On the edge of the cemetery I'm kneeling, all those crosses and that expanse of uniform green. The messy edges with the fragrant creepers, and my hands are still warm from their soft brown bodies. The release is a ritual of sorts, an anti-sacrifice for the dozens I suffocate daily.

Back in washup I watch Joseph and try to figure him out by his music and his movements. I watch him breathing in the green that comes off of the sawdust. How, how can I get in there? Into those brown eyes, into those sad brown eyes, I know there is poetry there. The serious outside contains such a sensitive inside.

Tonight the living room was full of our friends. Ten people came, the game, onto the bandwagon, our Canadian love, hockey. Built-in social life is what this house came with. I pulled out the dandilions, put that one sad daffodil in a pot on the stoop. This house was made to grow - I won't disturb its destiny. Grow flowers, grow fruits, grow friends. Friends sprout into relationships and relationships into love.

Summer, oh heavy heat of summer, what will you yield this year?


Roots | Shoots