Natasha King
I, TOO, HAVE A MOUTH
Not everything that grows was once planted.
What is expected of me is not that I shall be planted
but that my body on its knees
grows worlds, men, churches, children.
Not everything planted will grow.
But enough can be enough. I can say—
kneeling in the earth, I can say—
hands deep in the silt,
in the red, red clay—I can say, enough.
Earth is stone riven flat, given freely, and
I am riven, given, freely, gaily.
The seed at my fingertips, planted daily,
is not enough, and may never grow,
to be rice for all of the maws I have known,
to be love for all of the lovers for whom I have
starved myself, and then myself sown.
But if I remember that I, too, have a mouth,
then the clay of my blood can be
spilled for me, drunk by me,
shared with me, only for me. And I'll think no more
of the iron, grazing rib and wrist, the
heaven of a heart, opening up,
spilling rain, spilling salt, until fields lie fallow.
The crop is a boy is a man is a god is a heart
but I can say, enough, I have sacrificed
enough of myself on the altar of you.
Why should I split my spine against
angry earth, when I could
lift my hands instead to my lips and
love with harsh devotion the
sweet salt silt of I who am who am who am,
bury roots in my earth, grow who I am
planted, live and give to myself
of my body, behold and beheld. By
god I am growing. By myself I shall be enough.
BRANCHING
My palms make a small purse like the
egg-case of a shark. At some point
I pressed my mouth tight to their
torn opening. I spat
some kind of love, a seedling or a shark pup,
all serrated petals and serrated fangs,
into the egg-purse of my clasped hands,
and kept it there
to multiply in peace.
The cell structure of devotion
fractals aimlessly, and always has.
Months later when I cup the bones of your face
between my hands,
your lips and eyelids
will be snagged on wildling branches—
some kind of love with
rough sandpaper skin and thirsty roots.
Some kind of love hatching from my clenched fists.
Shark-toothed tree, fins like leaves. All gills and hunger.
Natasha King is a Vietnamese American writer and nature enthusiast who spends her spare time writing, prowling, and thinking about the ocean. Her poetry has appeared in Okay Donkey, Constellate Magazine, Oyster River Pages, and others. She can be found on Twitter as @pelagic_natasha.