Poem in Which I Transition into a Succulent
— Aeon Ginsberg
These are the hands of something ungreen.
Yes, I want to die, but all I have been able
to do is kill, again and again, so I hope to plant myself,
dirt hands into dirt making dirt body a succulent,
something manageable, but needing management.
I forget to water myself and my plants suffer,
I forget to tend to my roots and I displace,
I am dirty but am not kept for, not sprawled after.
When there is direct light you will not find me,
though I need it. Plant me is a better way of saying
I want to be buried and remembered for it.
Bury me is a way of saying end me, make this final,
watch as I create myself again every year, something
that blooms over and over again. No one asks
a perennial when they will stop themselves,
but no one knows when I will be happy with where I grow
so I must be dying or sinning but what is the difference.
Poetry was a mistake, but if you mistake enough
it becomes a habit or an intention. Mistake me into a girl
enough and I will become myself green, something with cells
rooting out of me, something that will last well after
your voice leaves you, well after my voice dissipates into
Read more from Issue No. 13 or share on Twitter.