I witnessed brown in a root
that stood in my mother’s garden
burn the water to mud
then dust,
and pollute the flow of veins required for breath,
for living in a world of heat
and cold alike.
Fruit plunged into pits,
into worms and beetles,
too consumed with puddles to bite the sting of sweet,
to savor the green,
the sun-made root sprung in red and yellow,
filled with more seeds than a watermelon.
Wilted, abandoned not by midnight rock,
but by stiff hands too frail to pin them
on fading arms again.
Umbilical cords once cut
can never be resewn.
Babies sleep in dirt,
with no mother,
no mouth for crying.
Only a rough earth shell,
shriveled like cranberries
I am addicted to.
Green and red and yellow stripped
to their hue.
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