By your hands, speckled forests
emerge, miniscule. Pinhead moles,
disturb corrupt substrates, compact
& discerning. Until my disruption-
a pre-cleaved zygote. A taproot
that should’ve been plucked
from earth & left you, a life-
happy, unwed, wandering. Sated
in solitary work of weeding
perennial abuse, alongside lacewings
& beetles. Baptized in spent soil.
Tumbling the rooted rotten. You
should’ve been a farmer. Seeded.
Bloomed. Born real fruits.
Shon Mapp is a Bajan writer whose pieces explore immigrant identities, kinship, and lesbian intimacy. Her words have been published in Stanchion, HAD, Fourteen Poems, and Neologism, among other journals.