Iceberg

Sashawne Smith

I am the world’s latest bloomer,
I eat,
and eat,
and eat,
the bark of the earth dries
and coils around me,
cracked and clean.

Living in the clam’s mouth,
glossus by nature and name,
I am not the only,
just the furthest from the end
anticipating reform, waiting,
waiting, to be picked up, prized open
admired, kept, worn.

I am tepid,
I am barely a breeze,
knowing it should roam as a wildfire does,
jealously watching people combust and smoke.
To be on fire and be seen is a luxury.

I bought myself an orchard,
to turn my breeze thumb green
but the limbs I shake,
throw bruised figs onto leaves,
crooked, soft
broken-backed,
they are terrible to look at,
not that it matters,
in a mother’s cake
we are all born-again.

Transformation in spelt
by weapon-like hands,
and the thought of growing my own
is what keeps willing the ice to thaw.
Inscribed in the surrounding ice
are patterns of feet
and twigs that once roared,
I wiggle my toes and read the Braille,
my life is as short as my last one.

That’s okay,
That’s okay.

This is the tip of the iceberg
and it is no place to call home.