I’m in the world but I still want the world.
I’m full of longing and can’t move,
enthralled in the garden. Having died
all the way back to the root, I grow again
into a version of the thing I love. I’m her
and not her, hermaphrodite with a heart
like a plateful of black flames.
The bees inspect me like doctors.
All my hard little tears, future selves
who haven’t grown. Bedclothes swell on the line
while around me giant sunflowers burn
through their masks of radiant desire.
Copyright © 2022 by Jenny George. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on December 2, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.