arbol
by Kiera Alventosa
there were moments before the bloom,
a movement called growth.
a seed sits inside me,
inside my stomach.
layers of flaking brown,
pealing back to smooth, supple green
pushing past.
and now this seed
is growing inside of my body,
a slow graze against my insides.
some told me to fear my feelings.
this feeling
is like the tendrils are climbing up my
esophagus as the stems slide
past the back of my tongue,
both smooth and rough.
this bloom is something like love.
leaves are pushing past my skin and i am
growing from the inside out.
but pinecones unfurling
is another way of opening up.
bodies are embedded
within other bodies,
and i am learning to grow outside of myself
from within myself.
my ancestors were farmers,
gracias a la vida. y besos.
but their seed culture
was almost lost somewhere.
i hope to find it in my body.
you remind me of my home.
you remind me of my heart.
you remind me that
true strength is found
in the stillness of
when we are
most vulnerable.
tangle in the wake, the aftermath is care.
grow. open up. unfurl. to bloom. to tear
apart. is to heal.
nothing,
no thing,
is just one thing.
breathe in
an ecology of hearts
entangled.
recreating tí(me)less patterns of love.
exhale.
grow in the mo(ve)ments of love,
through the
branches of life.