Fruiting Body

Sometimes I imagine my body
fodder for damp gardens, sunken
in the permanent earth. I am not dead
weight for trees. Sometimes a carcass
is just a carcass. But the soft
underside of every alive thing
is an offering. Tender bellies up
in surrender, supple throats to suck.

Sometimes I imagine my body
in bed with her body, fertile
with compassion & buds of possible,
a hundred distances made small.
Sometimes I imagine feral
love between us blooming young, the shoots
bursting violent through sternum & soil,
the two of us grown wild & complete.

***

Lane Fields is a queer, trans writer living in Boston. Lane’s poetry is forthcoming or has appeared in places such as Hobart, Yemassee, and Tupelo Press’s 30/30 Project. You can follow Lane on Instagram at @lane.fields or Twitter at @ohwowitslane.
Help us disrupt the Southern literary landscape.