Recovery

Somewhere, possibly close, the kettle boils.
I am waiting for my insides to knit together
around an absence, watching petals a shade
off clouds emerge on phalanx thin branches.

RNA is imprinted with memory, like lore.
Most days I attempt to escape myself
with bright lights and pleasant fictions.
Scattered stem cells turn, united as one.

Naming is violence, so I resist identifying
the birds that visit daily, just watch wings
flash egg yolk, variegated vine, shimmering
petrol spill; collecting seeds for longer days.

From waterlogged soil, from the base of a cut down
magnolia tree, I stretch towards an ink blot sky
stitching out of sap a fresh spinal cord.