i once read a story on the train
about a woman and her lover
with dirty fingernails
she said she couldn’t explain it
she wanted to feel
the way a hangnail feels
when thrust into the darkness
like a seed.
that day when i got home
i took a tweezer and each grain beneath each bed.
the dandelions sprouted first
each leaf left inky shadows on my stomach
small covered paths for ants or eyes to wander
the blossoms curved around my nose
and pressed their wispy petals to my cheeks
my skin abloom with pink, with orange-red
the roots criss-crossed my soles like veins
and quivered with each heart-beat.
i left my suit of armor made of nails
it clanged against the bedroom’s wooden floor
the earth beneath each crescent moon too large
to fit the whole of me
all thrust into the darkness
like a
seed.
