Milkweed Editions

I’ve come from the lacing patterns of leaves,
I do not know where else I belong.

Perhaps we are always hurtling our bodies toward
the thing that will obliterate us, begging for love
from the speeding passage of time

What if, instead of carrying
a child, I am supposed to carry grief?

What if I want to go devil instead? Bow
down to the madness that makes me.

What
would happen if we decided to survive more? To love harder?
What if we stood up with our synapses and flesh and said, No.
No, to the rising tides.

I am a hearth of spiders these days: a nest of trying.