once the city sprouted with gods—
seeds whispers, freshly braided with the breaths of the
ancients; tombs cracked impulses like
husks and roots curled from the bones of history. say
once, children built homes in the ribs of
cedars. their colours of laughter carved into a country
bark. once, elders named their dreams
after a tree. for trees do not forget the orders of a lively
hope. once, all things were bright and
beautiful. and eternity was hymnary into the greens of
a monsoon wind. but when the axe is
hungry, ferns unfurl singing dirges to the fractal geo-
metries of empires. only the deeds of
mycelium remembers the threads of hunger in which
she has entertained. does the forest
shrink into memories, if not that the city has lichen a
little normal into ingratitude? take the
crack walls of sycamore and build these heartbreaks
no more, this part where the rain out-
lives the wildness of fire and war. softly, softly the
mercy in the vine would blood over
us. and the borders of dust would come rhythm with
the original poem of god. down the
swollen belly of the earth, the acacia would fold its
leaves like a clasped hand, awaiting
the unction of redemption. the rain would play the
field of angels and the patient hand
would hold a miracle to her pomaces. back to the
prayers that tasted like gunpowder,
locking me like a decked heaven. but the truth is,
I’ve hurt myself gauzing kindness
out of the neon mouths of an open field. the sight
of me in tender hands of bulrushes.
