lately I have been thinking about
what the mind tries to erase
after enough time has passed
last week I read a line in
Michelle Dowd’s memoir Forager:
“What we bury grows.”
there was a pineapple
plant in his living room
when I came back
I never saw it fruit, but after I left
him again I made a playlist
called pineapple plant
trying to contain the feeling
of being in the same space as him,
trying to shrink the danger
to only the headphones
cupped around my ears
contain it to me and
my apartment floor and
my dog who needs a walk,
who I have promised:
no bad people
this is about the word
he would never admit,
back when I didn’t know lovers
could throw it at each other like
a sport they have both
forgotten they used to play
if I am compelled to bury,
let it be a seed of myself
is that not what I have
been trying to do all along?
almost in answer,
the phrase comes to me:
severed to the bone
I’m still trying to keep
my promise to my dog
I still don’t know why I am
so afraid of everything
I still don’t know why
I’ve been afraid of everyone
I have loved and why
that feels like love
Lex Lanza is a creative non-fiction writer, CD collector, lover of the forest floor, and sometimes visual artist. She can be found spooning her sleek black dog, Gilbert, yearning for small bodies of water, or lost in curating a playlist. Lex’s work can be found in BULLSHIT LIT, Full Grain Mag., Nightbird Zine, The Offing, Susie Magazine, and more.