When you were born you emerged from the earth
as a stem, as a cornstalk, with dirt caked to body.
Body born to no one, you licked the ground as if
it was a mother and who’d have told you otherwise?
Don’t talk of the passing stench of plant life.
You know, you know, you are spoiled by
movements of worms. The soil is ripe with seed.
Every old man’s hat as he plows is modeled
after your tuft tuque, the rim at the base
of your bald forehead.
You sweat when you smile.
Teeth are made for chewing,
built into the gums. You are not estranged
from the process of gnawing sticks and barks.
The trees are sprouting buds. You grow sick
with the sweetness of curious fruit. You know?
You don’t speak to the varieties of muskrats.
They ate out the pond and made it a marsh.
Retreat like a soldier into the rooted gloom
and make a potato of yourself. When you died
you died as a germ pegged to bedrock.
Not even the grass can find you.