Where did it start? In a city of gardens & muck.
When I held someone close, in watery light.
We drank & I bled all the way home.
Red-orange light on my legs. Oh, wow
that blink-blink of bright, that flip of the pulse.
Where did it start? In the garden, the muck
where insects jumped in starry arcs. My body
took shape, then. A greenhouse I entered alone.
We drank & I bled all the way home.
I wore so many clothes. Cotton, cotton, wool.
I burned in my skin like a stone. How, exactly?
Where did it start? There, in the muck
no one saw how we blazed into poppies.
Light raked through our bellies like combs.
We drank & I bled all the way home.
Now, I put myself to bed. My dreams
are coins to dispense as I like. On water. On light.
In a city of gardens & muck, you can start
to feel rich. You can start to feel right
& tumble for years down the hill of your life. You ask
Where does anything start? In muck. In a garden.
You drink the drinks & bleed. You’re foam.
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Click here to read Kiki Petrosino on the origin of the poem.
Photo: “Estuary-feet” by Andy Hay ; licensed under CC BY 2.0
