I’m tired of the way my grandfather’s hands always smell
like burnt flour and cigarettes, as if destroying things
down to their last remaining cinders is his life’s calling.
I remember seeing my grandmother’s head resting in his lap
when she thought we weren’t looking; I remember wondering
if he would destroy her too.
In my dreams, I have opposable thumbs that can never quite reach you
in all the right ways. My hipbones sprout forests
of willow trees that start weeping as soon as you touch them.
I want to be hungry for something that has no language,
to plant this love like roots into the air pockets of your ribcage,
to keep digging, planting, raising the dirt again and again
until all that remains is the seeds of my tongue in your mouth.
I’m tired of the way these dreams always end
with our garden burning down to the core of the earth,
as if everything we grew together will be destroyed too.
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weeping willow, burning bush
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