Momma I can’t bury no more thoughts in my belly. I swallowed

them whole. Roots growing in my guts. My flesh itches

and squirms. Can’t scratch to ease my satisfaction. All this

trouble makes me want to run. Where. The roots anchor

to my legs. My arms. Covered. It’s not me I’m turning into.

Twisting into another kind of tree to give no shade or shelter.

What good can I do Momma. I didn’t listen but you never

warned me about thoughts. Or did I forget to hear. My ears

went blind. Nothing more to say. My mouth’s full of roots.