"Tears for the gardened past" by Carmen

Rambling into the soil,

hoping my rageful tears

could be put to use.

In the morning dew,

I grant myself existence.

I mourn the kind of understanding

my narrative deserved—

its current form

the loss of their mundanity

they live on in me

I feel their rage

from their remnants.

Those of them who live outside me

are tired of carrying them—

quick to smother their embers.

The most prominent of them,

reduced to vessels

for the blood

of those they forced into roots.

Never devoid of pain,

just more acquainted.

Disperse my ashes—

to carry wind

to what's left of my sister's nursery.