This page contains:
- Body transformation
my feet are roots that defy physics
my feet defy
biology and botany tell me that roots don’t look like this,
don’t work like this,
so what am i?
i am sprawling tentacles and grip-
my father showed me, once,
that ivy ruins wood.
that it sticks and stains
and leaves its undefeatable marks
and, there you go.
your storefront is ruined.
my feet are cinderblocks
my feet are concrete
i am a ghost in a shell of a building,
in a skeleton, a husk,
a zombie left to rot. a living dead.
the foundation is dirty with rain
the walls are gray and graffiti
year-round, there are leaves.
i am a ghost with trees for feet,
i leave my falling leaves everywhere i go,
what is he?
how is he—
real? alive, still?
i am one with the chill of steel
i am one with the upturned dirt
i am the empty grave
i’m the gravestone.
what name do you want me to take?
who will die at my feet?
who will be consumed into the earth
who will feed the roots of the tree
who will be but a name in the mouths of others,
who will be but a memory?
i fall to my knees!
i fall on my arse.
one can’t stand on trees, silly.
one can’t withstand this.