Work Text:
Clack clack clack
fingers on keys
(death rattles of treadmills, rowing machines)
the soil calls.
The Council calls louder
skin the color of
(the pool in her dreams)
steel.
Seed’s tendrils reach for water
in the soil
(for life),
her fingers reach for them.
YOU ARE NOT AUTHORIZED
BUT I'M A CURATOR
(a curator)
YOU ARE NOT AUTHORIZED
On the outside
she is not authorized
(but she is a curator)
and the seed, her tree calls.
Wasteland colors,
thirst-quenching sky
(white walls so ugly)
earth the colors of people.
Little seed stretches
for water in the earth
(her tree),
her hand follows.
Roots thick and strong
curled around her hand
(her tree, her dream),
she falls asleep.