Sunflower teeth.

She says be ruthless with them and I’ve yet to tell her these plants are my teeth,
the gap between my spines.
I’ve not told her how I have grown these flowers over and over again in my sleep.
But I practise keeping my hands firm without trembling, moving roots from one bed to another,
it feels familiar.
Like two suitcases and a backpack, being hungover on a plane, kissing someone for the last time.
Kissing someone for the first time.
She says water them loads at first, it pulls the roots down, then leave them thirsty for a bit, they’ll find their own water.
And I want to tell her that I know thirst it’s ok, now I know to be hardworking instead of lazy and that rain always comes.
I push new seeds down and whisper blessing between my teeth,
my fingers want to absorb the soil, my marrow wants to know this dirt.
I can’t help but think of permanence,
of fingers making holes in dirt, of needles pushing ink and I push seeds.
It’ll hurt, sometimes.
I used to say I’m rootless, ruthless and ready to leave whenever I need.
But lately I have found myself like a weed, scattered all over, roots like tendrils growing from my tongue, my eyes in corners of two countries.
I know which parts of me grows like basil and which part of me grows like mint.



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3 responses to “Sunflower teeth.

  1. Is there a way to get email notifications when you write something new?

  2. Your “Follow” widget doesn´t seem to work …

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