plantland parts

The window is always open
for new sounds rattling through, like
yellow blossoms, tangerine and golden
xylophone ringings, gathering leaves
from the tree you sprang from.

I could hear a pine needle drop.
I heard a pine needle drop.
The pine needle dropped, and I heard it.

It's hard to ever say

It's hard to even say what we mean.

The fingers we've crammed  down our throats
to stifle us loving ourselves would be enough,

but wires of our mothers' hair
are wrapped around our fathers' stare,
the bruises from our brothers' harm

all laid inside our chests and backs.
We hide from arms of playground taunts
each haunting us in sing-song rhyme--

Pained reactions to our bald voices,
counted against us in a vast tally.

Each sagging corner from each pair of lips
and eyes rolled and rolled and rolled.

Reticence to speak, the more comforting retreat,
the missed open mouth, tongues bit mid word,

against the stutter
the stammer
the slur

the secret slip, the dreaded tonal squeak.

Its a wonder we can speak at all.