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WHERE THE MOLD GROWS QUIETLY

When silence thickens, dust gathers, and my mind lingers in the forgotten corners, trying to find tenderness in the slow erosion of everything around me.

Here are poems I wrote in hesitation.

(image source: pinterest)

Papaya

My mother plants papaya trees.
that stand like offerings;
slender, wide-leaved,
a prayer in green,
a flame in orange.

Every year,
they bear her fruit with devotion.

And every year,
my father watches;

watches them grow,
watches them bloom,
watches them give.

One day, he kills her trees.
Pours herbicide
he made himself.

“They’ve grown too big,” he says,
his smile thin, his brows furrowed.
“They’ll choke the other plants,
They’ll bring unwanted pests.”

My mother looks at him,
Then at her plants.
Slumped in silence,
browned,
wilted
and
hollow.

Bed Rot

My bed holds me.
It doesn’t let me go.

Clothes dissolve into sheets,
soft, still, sinking,
thread by thread,
until fabric and flesh
are one.

I can't leave.
There’s nowhere else to be.

If I sleep,
my hunger sleeps too,
my thirst is forgotten
like the names you say in dreams.

So let me sleep
a little bit longer.

I won’t change the sheets.
I won't let them forget me.

My blanket sinks and I sink,
into a mattress that no longer holds firm.
It's spine curved like mine.
It remembers, remembers
where my legs curl at night,
where I cradle my phone like a child.

I'm cold.
Let me pull my blanket tighter.

Maybe I won't have to think
and time won't matter

I just want to feel an embrace.

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WHERE THE MOLD GROWS QUIETLY

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