Plantas / dossier / Junio de 2022


Practice of Talking to Plants

​ Mama & i, we talk to plants, for

we are short girls close to the ground

​ & speech is the golden miracle—;

i learn to write while she says honey (making a fire-pouch

in the y ) to a speckled

​ banana whose existence is energy broth.

To limp chrysanthemums she says Come on & drops

a Bayer aspirin in; i curve our letters near a cholla

after it lent some needles to my leg—

We’re not good relaxers, childhood & i,

we suffer a leafy need while God is a missing

hypotenuse. We’ll not a dreaded dandelion meet

​ before her voice arrives at low violets.

In summer, when spicy seeds escape so fine

a pepper tree to make sashay for the lahn-ger-ay drawer,

we speak to spices they put on Jesus,

​ those poor bright spices staring in the dark…

He hath numbered every hair on your head, she said,

​ meaning she hath numbered the hairs…

​ when we are out with our strangeness

in the west— she in her desert, i on a mountain

crouching near Lilium parvum

with the same amount of frail our mother feels,

​ —it will be quiet for a while but syllables

​ are there: inside a leaf, a syllable,

​ inside a syllable, a door—

​​ ​​

Day 20

The lining of the real is infinite & that

is where we live, & humans

don’t give up when dreams are momentarily

sundered… like Gogol’s overcoat, like hope,

the cloth of that transforming everything-

i mean the lining of that dream…

This morning juncos with black wedges, black

hoodies in the nervous dawn…

Solstice approaches, the children

arrive at the end of an awful year,

grandmothers peek at them inside their beds,

there, not so terrible now, there they are

beside the winter dusk… pale pink lights

lift in the malls, humans trying to make

the living wage, in their loved

& unloved skins, brown, black,

pink, beige, white, marked, scarred, inked

pierced skins, buying objects for each other

…desert children doubt the winter holidays.

My childhood Jesus lived inside a cactus, magic

liquid streaming from his hands- the soul as

causeless love. On winter hills bands of scrubby

sunburst lichen eating lingam in the mist,

a beetle, the cells of its vision over gold,

its labor not labor if it doesn’t think so

nor Xanthoria break-

ing things down, “fairly common on bark…”

if you peel a piece of it from history

the rest continues—

Imagen de portada: Franz Marc, Deer in the monastery garden (1912). Dominio público.