yes, sis, cry.



tear your hair and gnash your teeth.


then wash the dishes.

braid your hair

or wrap it up and go,

even weeping if you must,

somewhere the sun will touch your face.


when a seed

is planted

or buried, abandoned to the soil

it may not know

that this is a gift.

every beautiful longing

is a seed.

plant it.

let it crane toward the sun and bloom.

every slow

cinnamon coffee morning

delicious in its quietude,

every baby

waving hello in a restaurant

every missed moment

every written letter

every heart bursting

is a seed.

grow your garden.


do seeds

the small ones – say, mustard –

get jealous

or ever pray to be

bigger seeds?

do they ever wish

they could fill themselves up

with air?

is that how they imagine


i press my fingers

toward the invitation of sky

bend my face to the sun

laugh, remembering how i once clung

to the shell i believed was me.

remember the wind and its longing for your skin.

remember the sky who loves you.

remember the rivers that open their mouths to you,

ready to carry your sorrows to some place you will not need

to follow them.

i reimagine myself daily.

all walls are moveable.

i abandon old wounds to the soil

until they fertilize it. everything,

even waste, has a purpose.


yes, dear,


let your bare feet sink into the earth.

be a desert flower, precious and perfect.

cultivate your heart.

remember that you too, will bloom.

do not waste it on the unworthy

nor the unwilling

do not go howling about your harvest

to the hungry

who will not stay to sow


i have been afraid

and filled with air before

did not know

i was a small, hard world

becoming powerful,

beautiful, as i open.


and I will tell you

what is better

than longing

is to grow



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