Crackling Blue

The hand that feeds us bleeds
of things we do not know;
we call it mother, it gives us
names of things unsaid. When
we feast, small plants are born
from rivers, and spread like wild
flowers. Our eyes, little black suns.
We are told many things
we choose not to remember –
how to stand in silence, how to
bloom in complete darkness, how to
retrieve or be retrieved without our
knowing, how to understand invisibility.
The seeds we plant are many, but
many more of us grow –
these ones erect and unapologetic
small conquerors of old worlds –
though, they too, must carry the
weight of distraught ancestors
like heavy rocks, sinking into their bones
deeper and deeper
until their crackling turns blue.