By any other name

In moments when inquiries of my origin threaten to dislodge peace.

I am.

An opening flower that smells like a wound.

The food, folded inside a carnivor disguised as a sheep,

laying in wait for company

or a crack in the soft peddles beneath hooved feet.

When the sun rises, my body will be consumed.

A trampled compost, a breathing disposal.

A cacoon of digestive fluid will become my tomb.

But yet,

My essence remains

intact.

The process knows me in all these parts:

The soil becomes my skin,

the roots of the shading trees are where my organs used to be.

What of bones?

Tectonic plates, snaping and crackling under the pressure of distant drills.

Eyes

water stifled from the trickling rivers in the back woods of North Carolina.

I am

deconstructed in this way

every time my name

is

disolved,

a category for distant land,

a curated piece of

Where.

I am not from

Here,

your questions are:

product of your watering mouth stretched across seas,

an anchor in your jaw

a cancor for the uncomfortable truth.

Everytime you ask,

what “I”

means,

you open the gate to Saint Dominque,

Everytime I redirect you to southern soil

red clay boils like blood at my feet.

When I answer,

my tone is sown together

like a contageous blanket as

I place a silent,

incideous code on my tongue,

pervasive as your breath smelling sweetly of perpetual taking and

devour.

My name

means ; sliced open, but still, not for you.

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