Strangler Fig
A leaf oozes white sap on my hand, wounded,
ripped from its book
Once there was no photosynthesis,
no leaves, no way to store sunlight
before plankton, moss, pollen-packed wind
Here, a palm tree stood, a fig seed
germinating in its canopy, over years
devouring its host, the fig’s bark
wrapping around the palm —
I rub the tree’s skin, I want to hold on,
bathed in dirt and rain, visited
by apparitions of wind, crawled upon, roots
dangling from my arms —
Without fig wasps, there’s no
pollination, no fruit,
without the fig’s flowers the wasps
can’t reproduce
Didn’t I try to give freely? Didn’t I
feed you?
Not knowing what else I could do —
Host, or parasite, sometimes
I’m confused Tell me, to what
do I give myself now, how best
to be used?
* * * * * *
I Called to You and You Answered
Grasses as far as I can see
sloped like a body, long
with a fertile back Is that
death out there in
a wheat-colored gown
whose hide was beaten
near enough to paper?
I called and something just
ran out of my body
out of not just my mouth
more than my mouth
as if a tongue could stretch
a billowy scarf in wind
and a voice would follow
rolling out as far as I could see
could hear I called to you
and somehow, voiceless
you answered, like the mandibles
deep in grass and the grass
deep in contemplation
and contemplation something
living Remember when we
were alive? you asked
in my mind, and you laughed
and I laughed at the same time
because what did that mean
when we were alive —
you wanted our voices
to meet out there You said
I’m trying to find out where I am