seed, a second time
by Quinn Garcia
The pulp of an orange suddenly
sees itself as the feathers
upon the wings of an angel,
The breath of a man yawns
into a symphony of endlessly expanding sound and vision—
your hands and eyes have created the world, planted and grown
something from nothing.
There are no words for this all-consuming writhing—
through the earth of my skin
my heart extends past itself to touch a star that did not exist,
a force that blinds my fragile fingers,
eradicating the noise and darkness that had soiled my senses.
And to think
that I was not in a full world before you, but a mere space
which held nothing but my heart,
who turned her mindless hands
under the waiting worms and heaving oblivion.
The pulp of the orange suddenly sees in itself the root, the tree, the leaf, the flower
I suddenly see in myself a woman, a childhood, the future, you the world, and
every blue fingerprint you have marked me with.
Your hands burnished everything
and it shines, like teeth cutting at the wind, like seeds in the palm, like words scattered over our heads—
you have given me the earth and the stars
and with them, a second beginning.
About the Author:
Quinn Garcia is the editor-in-chief of the (K)nightly Press, along with being an actress, writer, and full-time cowboy.
