Let me break free from these lace-frail microscopic bodies.
My breath (always shared); trace it back to unmasked foreign bodies.
Taking that last winter deep into her lungs. Breathe, I remind her.
& remember me a child, Mom, not this unrecognizable foreign body.
The sky’s aperture widens. Sight ≠ witness. The organ’s rusty song
catches
in the rafters (unascended). & all this rain leaking down on us like foreign bodies.
Grey fox. White cells. Families fleeing one home for (hopes of) another.
Some borders, perhaps, are meant to be trespassed by unforeign bodies.
Row after perfect row = harvest. Harvest ≠ everyone is fed. Sated.
Breaking
up from the earth beneath, star thistle & bindweed. To us, foreign bodies.
The day an autumn orphan, & we’re yanking roots. My daughter’s tiny
misgendered fingers in mine, (pulling. Together), no body is foreign.
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