let me tell you of the day I tripped over my wasted body, all that youth he plundered and shaved off, whittling my heart until it was a twig he could snap, dropping the pieces as he walked away. I found my body there in the shallow runoff water, in the gullies and trenches of dirt, matted hair mistaken for ferns, dulled goldenrod. My hands I turned into spades, dug in and lifted my splintered self, staggering out of the drudges, dirt clinging to me. I shoveled inside myself, unearthing him from my body, upheaval of grime and grief. I lay his head down next to the rest. Gently. I use his remnants, that foul blooming decay, to irrigate my dreams, my visions of you. My shovel hands glint in the sun as I drop the spades and wail. I sing you to life, to vibrant being. Thrusting my hands into moist earth and ripping at the roots, lifting them up, sprouting whole women with low-swinging hips, fleshly orbs of breast, small and large, pink, pinched, and tart as a rhubarb stem, dark blue and marbled as a bruised grape, hair writhes, backs arch, toes splay and the dirt exults at finally being loosed, I exult in being finally loosed, rejoice in the ability to loose others, unfastening those roots which bind and bury, daughters you are my lineage and my sovereign


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