Bone Gardens

Famine came crawling on its knees,
begging for a home in alms. My roots

dark like the furry hide of a raccoon’s
stare. Nobody can know how deep a

human’s desires flow. My ribs
sleep in different rooms; sutured to

independent plans. I surf statistics
and alternatives. The one thing

that drives towards the gulls is a body
of light, emerging like the sign of infinity.

The way my face caves like a lone stone
grown taller than the length of an ocean’s

wave, does not wheel precarious boats to
any mines of crops. I could sit in a field of

ripe fruits thrusting their bellies through
from a lover’s cling of the root goddess,

watch their juices leak out
like a stone-earth’s sweat,

yet feel no wind on the nape
of my maw, hunger ricocheting

like trapped lilies in bone gardens,
ripening on the brink of a lupus moon.