the well of my throat

farmland sprawls in my mother’s womb,
where i filled the fields when i grew.
since i was reaped, i’ve grown
in my own skin;
no longer just the richest soil,
but still made of sweet earth.
now, i grow in your heart, too—
so softly! and i grow in our kisses
and giggles like drunkenness,
and in the liver of your life;
(to sift through troubles for you.)

what should you do when you feel
that rumbling in your stomach, so
strong they wonder if you’ll birth
a bright thunderstorm? i often sit,
and wait for pain to pass. one day,
i will call you and ask you to help, and
and the clouds and thunder inside me,
and it will shift but not leave, and we will know
i am not my mother.

my body has made me for pain, in fear
and in tire. maybe, one day
my storms will change,
and i will grow for better weather,
but i wonder if for now, you and i can
wait the storm out in bundled fabrics
and open fires, or rebel and play in rain;
i think you might be how i stop fearing dark skies.

When White Clover Coos & Croons

My past selves play in a field of white clover!
Play structures sprout from their trapezii,
preferable to wings for a young one.
Children dream in such surreal ways
for how small they do.
Cooing & crooning fold & whisk into the air,
and insects tune to the jewel-like sound,
joining in with the humming of their
God-given mouths and bodies.
The white clovers mimic birds, and men in love!
My past selves make off-brand daisy chains
and the plant song grows louder.
These are love songs, though I might not know it.
I can’t teach my past selves things,
so I'll teach my future selves.
How much easier it would be
if I could still dream like I did!