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Eye a Marooned Vegetable
I imagine waking up one
morning in the fields of blue grass
and white cushion. I walk to you,
tell you secrets of the earth risen
from crust. I was once a small
child like you, grew in the plot
amongst cornfields and grape vines
where my dates were my neighbors
green as coconut shells, removed
as jujube brown and placed
in your cup, half eaten, half
consumed. I walk to you.
Can you not see my limbs move?
the hard ridges of outer saw
dust on the speckle stars of my skin?
I was born here, grew here, then
cut down here as the sun set until
the ninth hour. But if you listen
closely, if you embrace a certain
vegetable and open your mind,
you can see me touch your hand
you can feel my breath on your skin
you can hear my kiss enwrap
the tip of your tongue as you drink
me in and I fall farther down
your gullet to settle like leaven.
I am dead. I call father why
have you forsaken me,
I lived just as you did.
But through the word of
mouth and exchange of this
gospel pen held between my lips,
this instrument to connect with,
which sing melodies and harp
tunes, I live in you my dear readers. I walk
the gulags where I lost half
my life, but I live, beloved brethren.
And I ask you, once again,
Can you see my arms and