Cultivation

It starts small--

a handful of mustard seeds planted

in eyes darker than the dirt under your nails.

You plant them individually, delicately, purposefully--

but then your hands start to tremble and you start to panic

because you're enthralled by the rainbow in those pupils and then

thousands of seeds topple over your fingertips

in waves, and you are swept in their current,

resisting, fighting. But squirming only plants you deeper.

Roots wrap around you, twisting like

fingertips intertwined around your neck, consuming

you in yellow, in warmth. You lie patiently, silently, praying your

roots will survive the darkness, that small yellow heads will

soon emerge to greet the sun and not suffocate under the hope of growth.