XXI

 Moss Mouth

There is moss in my mouth.

I speak in green Latin,

my breath softens the glass,

my teeth split spores, crush chlorophyll.

I haven’t eaten in years.

Hunger still finds me.

I reach with a rhizoid tongue,

for something with a pulse.

The tulips bloom beneath my gaze.

This one is my favourite.

Tulipa gesneriana. Petals part with a sigh.

I press my lips to the soil. 

I am everything but patient.

This earth tastes like a memory,

I can no longer name.

Reaching for softness, straight from the vein.

If I am soft will the tulips still bloom?

Will they still come gently undone?

Bleed blossom down my throat,

in velvet purple and pink.

The vines wind tighter,

slow around my ankles.

I don’t fight them. Not anymore.

They thread my ribs devoutly. 

I am bound to earth by vine. 

They remind me I chose this.

Tangle truth through my thoughts.

Sweet and rotting through my roots.

Still the tulips call, 

bending towards my fingertips.

Mouthing something I can’t hear,

teaching me tenderness.

Dorothea Blythe