becoming pando

i am told there is an aspen grove

with roots that hold hands so tightly

they are acknowledged as 

one single organism

if one tree dies

the others mourn in sickness

and if a sapling grows

sugar is sent

my chest is heavy

i relocate my breath 

i wish to understand 

the same belonging 

what foresters call

"a stand"

. . .

some days are broken

but minutes add to daylight

hawks and herons migrate back
to an early greening homeland

matching my gaze to their sky

i feel my heels lift

arms reach

chest rise

things are shifting

but while the mountains 

still swallow the sun 

at early dinner

pain invites me in

bad habits clog up the kitchen drain

i bleed on bicycle seats

and scream into soft palms

it is by self abandon i feel myself rot

old fruit tossed on roadsides

when with others

i am dust collected on windowsills

i am a back burner slow burning

i am them 

                before me

. . .

 i rest my hands on the soft of my stomach

 soften my gaze

and listen

she bleeds,

"why do you
love them
                before me

 i need you here
  more than ever"

holding her
i mourn my deaths, these old ways of being
and send sugar to new growth

. . . 

instead of dividing myself in two
i look at my hands
stained by july citrus

i lick up the syrup

and kiss the soft in the crook of my arm
accepting humanity in the shadow of divinity

i breathe,

"i am"