What it means when we say I’ve changed

I could fit my new voice into an intact walnut –

that I appear to be an unbroken surface when sap

leaks through like underwhelming whitecaps.

The nutcracker angrily spits out a new dialect

where coffin is synonymous with chrysalis 

and sin can’t be contained at the size of an apple seed.

I have simultaneously slumped and hardened,

a petrified sugar maple no longer viscous with sweet

edible things or forest offspring, prime as a kitchen island

propping up the fruits of another family.

What I mean is that my vasculature

may as well irrigate a wilted houseplant

and that we’re applying CPR to firewood.

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Published by

Jenna

Hello, fellow bundle of nerves and flesh! I'm a simple little being who's half-poet, half-scientist, and all gelatinous chaos. Sort of like an illogical marshmallow. If you'd like to learn more, please seek out the "First Impressions" page. Thank you for the visit, bundle friend.

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