I will not Listen to you anymore, giver
of life who is giving her own life back,
but is not giving up anything, nor way
to anyone. We are going to extol you,
a thing that is enough to make us think
how and what makes a seed coat hard,
and the children fine and soft-grained.
No matter the hour, nor life’s obstacles,
nor discord that breaks apart seasons, a seed
gives its seedling an imprint of its being
out of what pushed it into love with life.
It makes it its own, the way in a matter of years
earth came to you; we’re going to map you,
map your caryotype when the house is full
and winter is left outside, your heart, face,
legs and eyes, and frame you on a wall
in the halls of our lives, though that's not all:
we'll wear the armor of what your eyes say
when you look at us and peel our minds,
fear the gospel of life that means to leave
your body. These past days I have heard,
as I move through fruit-stalls at the market,
that these were you, tubers and green stalks
and the smell of fruit bleeding. But now only
tubes feed you, as they dangle their arms
at the sides, tame inside the living room.

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