A Body Built By the Earth

My limbs are made out of weeds,
which bleed into the earth,
like a clawing, craving worm.
I cannot get out.
I'm trapped in the ground.
The thorns in my side attach themselves
to the soil,
spreading apart my battered bones.
I have to get out.

I wrap a filthy hand
around my bleeding arm
and force it from the ground,
tearing it apart.

The weeds morph into petals,
which turn pink and decay.
They crumble upon the ground,
and the wind blows them away.

Until you learn to speak
The language of the soil
Until your tongue learns to dance
While roots fill your mouth
You will bleed like a sacrament
The flawed vessel of your body
A damaged offering to silence
A voice that might not be
Folding hands that barely seem
Feel the coarseness of the loam
Like a lover's touch against your cheek
As the roots coil around your lungs
The more you fight it
The faster you will
Give in to despair
Embrace the thought of nothing
Cry out to St. Dymphna
But she's not there
You are not
You are alone
(You are not you)

I look to my other arm,
also trapped in the ground.
A smile forms upon my face,
hopelessness familiar and warm.

The blood is spilling out of the hole
where the weeds used to be,
but all I feel now
is the sun surrounding me.

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