Genesis by Lilah Galvin

Newspaper makes her think of seed
tape; coffee grounds in the compost,
banana peels interred at the woody feet
of roses. She’s reminded of how
she was once a seed. Ripened,
swollen with wonder, she dropped
from her mother’s body; had her first
taste of earth, and it clung to her tongue

 

like pollen on the downy fuzz
of a bumblebee’s back.
When she was young, still baptized in clay,
Momma said, Fill yourself with intention, Love,
so she carved out a hope chest on her insides,
lined it with shelves; piled them with coins
for wishing. The world cracked open
with the budding of her breasts, a milkweed pod
splitting its downy center to the late
summer breezes. She relinquished herself
to the movement of the ink-blotted firmament,
the steady pulse of photosynthesis as the trees
breathe. She was born knowing
some seeds fail to flourish once they fall.
Rot before they blossom. The world
was never promised to her,
so when a green-eyed boy whispered he kept
the universe in his pocket, she planted herself at his
feet and he heeled her into the dirt with his boot.

 


Lilah is a writer of both poetry and fiction; no one seems to know how to pronounce her name. She is often mistaken for her oldest sister.

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