by Shon Mapp
Imprisoned in terra cotta, I am
a seed sown in a false garden.
Surrounded by soil-muffled
murmurings of starved cotyledons,
the worms register complaints
of cold sustenance. This sad woman
doesn’t have the green thumb
like her girlfriend. But, she tends us
all the same, tries to germinate
the young, revive the old to their lush
selves. She doesn’t understand how we
crave breathy heat. Even encourage
weed creep and wild burrowing things
to jolt us into bearing. How we must be
pushed to bloom or blight. Drowned,
sun-exposed, wind-blown. Roots
accosted, helixed by hostile tendrils
that spread them wide, so wide.
Shon Mapp is a Bajan writer whose pieces explore lesbian intimacy, kinship, and immigrant identities.