Walnuts in their secret planets drop.
The purple mallow lifts in rhymes.
Take my aril and sew it to the earth.
Bloom my dark fruit from pawpaw flower.
I’m the girl with the scythe in the song of the lark.
My hands irrupt into the limbs
Of the Spindle tree, its autumn blaze.
My oily bones
Speckle with rain’s immanence.
Any direction I walk
I evoke this living within me. God divides
In lots among the seeds: some will only erupt
From fire’s evulsion—
Follow the coyote’s tracks in the arroyo
To this one moment, hovering in the dark above you
Grind, you say, Now, grind
Read Heather Derr-Smith’s Backfire 2
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