Shucking Seeds

Flustered, mind agape, silently wide-eyed,

I know not what sits behind her eyes.

She, a squirrel up a date palm, looking for acorns,

and I, a logical storm looking for a landing, apace,

we dance the squares of the place, tiled and tidy,

a touch of mildewed madness escaping. We spin.

She hides, a cushion pin stuck in the grimy wall.

Magenta stew toppled around her meaty face, her,

I stare across the room at only silhouette;

flat ribbon plastic words float to her

cordon her off like a crime scene

in the corner, dark, smoldering

punk in a steamy seamless-ness,

drunken porridge, we two–a corruption,

an oil leak of foul forethought.

She takes me home–her home–

a wondrous oak tree, reaching

branching, bleeding out the red roots.

We shuck seeds, plant acorns, see what grows.