Breadcrumb #656

ANGELICA WHITEHORNE

Grandpa always told me growing up, “You ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of grass.”

“Grass in a drawn out, dry heat, 
nutrition-less, thin stalked, and sallow, 
your mess of brown hair the stringy blade’s dried tip, 
your gapped teeth the space between the greens.”

He said “You’re gunna be trampled over, 
you’re gunna be grown real thick
around the silent house of the dead, 
    you’re gunna be pissed on by dogs 
and alley cats 
and young men drunk out their minds.

You small, growing thing, thing of abundance, thing that if picked or wrecked or wilted would be replenished quickly by the sprouting seeds of young, resilient growers.

Yes, you’re gunna be crumpled in the calloused palm of many hands 
and crunched between the teeth of the herd.

You’re gunna see a lot and feel a lot of weight,

but if you’re lucky you’ll also sweat a thousand summers
hot on your straw face, taste a thousand mid-spring rains.

You’ll become fertilized and sturdy and one day,
you’ll be placed carefully between the fingers of a young
beauty and she’ll blow into you, and you will 

sing sing sing.”

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