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I am waiting
for the stones in my muscles to grow moss -
let its softness cushion the weight,
let its spores dance through my bloodstream,
let them settle
in my fingers and my toes and my tongue
with the other unsprouted things.
I am pulling
out the dandelion roots in my chest
despite the shivers of ancient pain and
despite the warmth of the blood -
despite the deep hold
of the rot and the weeds in my bones
and the conviction in my brain.
I am rejecting
the salvation laid out before me
as the hymns bleed out of my lips, and
as my heels grow calloused from walking, and
as my closet grows full
of broken flower pots and canvas frames
and bones I have outgrown.
I am drumming
on my bruised kneecaps and dented shins
with dry knuckles and weeping palms,
with live wires and bird bones,
with dark roots weaving out of my scalp
that serve as a reminder that my body
is not yet dying.
I am burning
with snow and ice and light,
clearing the hall of dust,
clearing the void for stars,
clearing out the underbrush
so the serotinous cones can be opened
and planted.