Alien gardens

Dissatisfaction can be so heavy and hard to put down
and the rusted edges of happiness can make it hard to hold
sleep is anxious and angsty, and in my dreams I’m rushing toward rest,
toward familiar shapes with ugly faces,
sluggish in my existential pain,
wounded and wilting, animated, asleep among the never ending depths

Last night the same sad dream had me screaming around sharp corners on
steep cliff edges, wild-eyed and terrified and flying off the bluff, wide awake
but I waited through the fall last night, wishing to see below

I listened as the water came close and heard
a moment so prolonged, heard patterns bubble up in the birds’ chirps and the day take a rhythm before
water crashed across the car and consumed it, and the dank bottom approached
squinting into the impossible sandscape I saw
how safe it is in the imaginary under

As if the good days can’t be fed by what troubles us, those gritty grains
are cannon fodder, stuck to edges of a nightmare and shaken into the sheets on waking
Rest is softness and warm light, quiet togetherness, belly and heart full
beyond obligation, outside worth, owed to anyone
it’s a love letter to every hateful part of myself,
gratitude for those who let me close enough to claw away, to see
whether from foraging alien gardens or sowing heritage crops
the dirt beneath these nails is a gift:
human abundance and the opportunity to share it.

One thought on “Alien gardens

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