Sowing
I want to turn my hands
into gardens. I was raised
on soil and the fear of
God, but my bones weren’t
made for all of this gravity.
Nothing has grown in ages.
I don’t know how to love
myself, really love myself,
like how the moon falls
around the earth with
so much faith. I wish
I could fall like the moon.
It feels more like tumbling, like
a loosed leaf negotiating wind.
We can still see where our
bodies struck the soil. Nothing
has grown in ages, but
there is so much hope
in seeding; I want to turn
my hands into gardens.