Beccy SST11 first draft

13 May

Apologies I haven’t actually had a chance to do anything to this since the last time I posted.

My hands are gardens,

are the first place I learned to kill, weed, prune, neglect

until sterile. I was afraid

of life. Afraid of cracks

where things germinate unseen.

 

My heart grew mould. It was an apple

too long not picked. My hands are raw

from scrubbing. I dream of

rockets and space, somewhere germless

but my body betrays dreams,

can’t help growing things, hiding others.

 

Her first love was flowers. Her sisters

was dancing? Mine was books.

What was my mother’s first love?

The smell of cut grass? Twinkling stars?

We’ll go there maybe, one day

when the gardens on my hands are beautiful

and I’m no longer trying to kill or ignore.

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