I work to care for myself, I put my pillows in the sun to air

& daylight dead skin, I escort spiders outside in a jar

I shell out a little trauma
In a floating room I sit in a blue armchair to voice things I wish not name

that night my dreams make it mincemeat in a wound, a fistula in a cow’s side

blue cheese forgotten in an eroded cavity in my thigh
Shame cut a neat hole an acid drop through my palm

a seared pink well, I allow salt water to pass

to fill                    to empty
I work to make my body safe

mid-morning sun is good for bipolar depression

I cop the sun, face skyward, eyes closed

until my mind’s painted white
I’m a garden, a breathing mess

a good gardener makes notes

tend           observe         report
I am fruit trees

I bear figs settled jammy implosions
I am basil leaves

curved green shoes
I am lavender

frilly question mark petals
My leaves are soft, if not to touch

then to look upon

My leaves speak the wind’s chaos

sand poured over my shin
I have roots

white sinews whisper to microbes

sprawling a whale’s skeleton

there is a silent magic down there

in the loam, in the dark