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.
The Anarchic Neuron 