Growing Trees

Every plant
she put on her balcony
died before
she named it.

The one that came crushed
from the store dripping
broken eggs. The shells
she left in to manure.

The one that smelled like her feet
but tasted as the ocean does.
Was veined even more than
her varicose, spiders and scars.

The one that looked like
her from four years ago –
thick hair quickly falling.
thick hair quickly burning.

Her eyes with roots,
eggs, photosynthesis,
stare at ‘em, wait
their death.

Empty manure filled pots
without life. Reproduce,
create, become barren.
Her eyes, the only place
alive.

Growing Trees

The one looking sloppy
in an orange pullover
which she’ll keep
between double rainbows,
rain on sunny days.
For now and ever,
she’s promised,
she’s christened.

With her water, with blood,
with sweat and grit.

Between her eyes,
is her knows,
her lives, her kills.
Divine God, mother of all sons,
lover of all daughters,
eye of the crypt.