by LE Francis
& I make room for the new to take root,
tendrils of long dead things wrap around
my fingers like rings, like commitments,
& I am obliged to shake free. A walnut,
black-shelled & spongy with bloat blooms
out of the earth, insides ragged with dirt
& decay. & as I toss it into the bin I wonder
after the squirrel who planted it there
upon a faraway autumn & how
the thing we hope will sustain us
can get lost in the weeds. & the seasons
change & time sends a root through
the heart & in comes the earth,
in comes circumstance, in crawls
beetles & deadlines & priorities
& the fibrous whisper of mycelium
to transmute the nature of the thing
which we planted in a season of belief
& then the clouds move & the sun
is hot on my back & I can hardly remember
the way so many things felt – good or bad.
It gets lost in the soil of memory, rooted
in a time when the weeds were deep
& cold with dew. Now, wheals of rash raise
where the dead stalks lashed against
my skin & I can never be certain what will
cause me distress, what will bring the old
up to be felt with a new heart, cracked
open by time & rooted into a body
which sustains for now, whispers
which are & aren’t mine, the universe,
the stars, the earth, within & without.
LE Francis (she/her) is the editor-in-chief of Sage Cigarettes Magazine. Her debut chapbook THIS SPELL OF SONG & STAR available through Bottlecap Press. She plays bass in Hands Above Stars (ig / yt) & masquerades as a musician in the subterranean project Bone Palace. She is a writer, musician, & visual artist living in the rainshadow of the Washington Cascades. Find her online at nocturnical.com.
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