ROOTED

By Taliesin Don

Your mother’s ghost milked me through

the wet cotton of my selfishness. I yelp

in the yellow of morning, fingers pressed

to my tongue tasting the sour of old rot

and something festered, sweet. In the

dark, you led me past the pleasure house,

past the orchard down to where the

barley was soft and bent-backed from

August rain. Skin to soil, salt and spit

between us, denim tugged halfway

down— Beneath us, worm-bloated

coffins, a body born of your name, not

yet cold.

The earth listened.

Split its lip.

Bled a red not meant for roots.

You didn’t notice how the

wind held its breath. You

pulled me closer like a prayer

A warm bloody thing where

Something died.

Something opened.

And you kissed me clean.

#DarkPoetsClub