Mistletoe ornaments a branch.
the forever green of it, eaten out of season.
here, birds wipe their beaks against pink sky,
& the language adheres to trees.
the sprigs flourish in their raging shoots.
at a whim, I tapeline myself to a baobab trunk—
reaching for the roundness of grapes to busy my fist.
ants tick their disapproval on my body,
& I redden with demand.
the twigs landlocks the ruffled pedestrian.
tulips bend in & out of spring,
every leaf seem to outlast the theory of evolution.
all my life, I have been so bushy with existence,
that a rake to my skin would have no effect:
made of long stranded follicles on caramel skin.
the taproot of my loin in tangled mess with thirst.
plastic tendons braided to elephantiasis.
my monthlies arrive—cramp in hand, saucy as a doorman.
the red stewing from my lap: all citrus thick & solidified,
all bloodshot ripe with gender:
a recipe God curated in angst.
Ma calls the bad blood by its name, till it
wins me into custody—the way I submit myself to erosion.
the roof of my skin, halved on the inside:
a labelling & mislabelling of my entrails.
the knife misses me by a hairsbreadth,
umbilical hung loose, an afterbirth taking the place of a child.
somewhere, a maidenhead widens & lock up like a fraudulent deal:
this kegel talent that breeds a newborn.
what contract says our womb don’t make the cut,
if the knife don’t go round to dice our name in serious dialect?.
sixty-four wailing bodies of women, pushing through a deadline.
what powers gave this timeframe to light up our world?
wherever one rakes is their burning bush.
even Moses pulled his sandals to wear the heat—uncanny as it is in the Bible.
know this: our organs speak to us in the Holy of Holies.
except it is you who wouldn’t dust your feet.
your reproach, latching at the under rug.
the things you’ve done to self, debunking the woman you would become.
once, an organ questions what fuels your horniness,
& the uterus cough up pills upon pills.
your medical hands, rounding them into a capsule before sealing them up in sachets:
a science that care less about pharmacy.
we surrender health to this course.
a boy ago, it rained powder,
a miscarriage later, curses rain down like hail.
we are each other’s offspring to mourn how we can.
witness the way joy change hands at our expense:
a toddler’s head, to busy your fist with so much delight.
won’t you stand a witness to this:
that in your labouring, someone planted life & told it to flouris
Samuel (he/him/his) is a writer of poetry & other works of art. He has been previously published/forthcoming in Westerly Magazine, Australian Poetry Journal, Australian Access Poetry, Singapore Unbound Journal, The Ex-Puritan, & elsewhere.
