spreading brambles
by Lucía Reynoso
I searched for the source—I stopped crying and breathing —
I felt scratches and tears—
I saw blood and bark and leaves and shadows—spreading brambles—
I learned there is nothing to learn—there is nothing to find—
the opaque ponds—I can’t stop staring at the water’s surface—
figures and shimmers—just reach out—isn’t that what I want—the cold and the dripping and the weight—
a clothed nakedness—for a moment I can think of nothing—
it’s what I’ve always wanted—
the weight is blue and green the texture of mercury—
even this flora lives in aquatic environments
I seem to be always thinking of myself—I seem to be always thinking of the brambles—
branches of nerves and sinew and spinal fluid—if I snap them will I fall limp
into your arms—you keep singing to me—you tell me that my anger is clarity—it keeps my eyes open—
so you don’t have to close the lids with your fingers—
you can’t keep luring me into living—
I always follow your voice—I wander away and away and away—
did you see them cover the sky—did you see them cover the dirt
you saw me carve runes into my body—they are tattoos
they are taboo—they are ordinary
I didn’t know when I wrote them what I would attract—
rows of rows of thorns—a monoculture of branches—
I read once that the end is flames—ashes and fire kills the world—
I saw the rebirth of a dry mountain on the Ventura coastline—
foxtails and poppies and oaks—heat the fuel for sprouting—
spreading brambles—they kill my world
sing me a song you know to be dangerous
the hook scraping my soul
spreading brambles—sharp—subsuming—screaming—
I’ll breathe a spark