Carved from the seed, you were
Vexed and misshapen.
Woody imprints on a solid frame,
Sprouting limbs and jagged, forlorn dimples,
A sheet of pollen dusted away to reveal some freckles and
outstretched veins.
Your cockles intertwined—
Fleshy, taut arteries pulsing beneath milky skin.
Rough.
Stretched.
Canvased in the dirt, your beginning.
I never yet thought much of yams.
Now, as I peel away your exterior, I know that
yams aren’t soft until you teach them
to survive unbearable elements.
Your roots continue; they’re outstretched, awaiting sun and
water’s embrace. Neglected, the infected core spreads
its rot.
My daughter learns to squeeze my hand
And what it means to reach out.
She doesn’t know she’ll be reaching forever, like the yam,
Intent on surviving outside of the ground, continuing to grow in
unfit places,
Awkwardly burgeoning malleable twigs that are grasping for
something to hold; such beautiful organics that are
blossoming for a world it doesn’t know.
Here, all of your complexities are showing:
The ones that belong, and the ones that do not. I can’t neglect
things growing
But I can delightfully watch the unfolding.
