Fig, Folded

Lash everything irredeemable to the ficus with muscle. Use the flexor digitorum brevis from the arch of my right foot. This is how what’s grounded gets hitched to the rooted, everything cramped into place and contemplative. Tight striations might as well be bindings to Bodhi as body. Why not dump this tired mind at the foot of a tree, aerial roots less caustic than an unanswered calling — or perhaps this is it, to sit, to ponder, to ask: what violated cunt, what unhappy gasp, what sad spat, and toppling building left us blooming untoward? Who puts flowers on the inside of a fig except the injured or the bereft? The ones who hankered hard and failed to do anything but live lush and fallible? What regret is: bark or bitch. The world succumbs to beauty even now, in the throes. The sky is dark and hidden behind branches, cephalic veins clotted with grief. Hush now, finally. All the face can do is flush, sympathetic nervous system, visible horror of wounded and wounding. All inflorescence remains safe inside that place the mind opens up pear-shaped and vast: the body of every lover is unattached to hurt or hope, falls in its own field of daffodils, to curl fetal with singular prowess or glut.