I am the bird that swallows your seed.
I am the thorn that pierces the husk.
I am the path leading away from every one
            of your fenced-in gardens.
I am the dusty road desiccating
            your calloused farmer feet.
I am the rider on a flight of wind far from hands
            that would throw me where I never
            drifted on my own.
 
I am an open manhole blowing your tire; you curse me
            yet my void pulls in a curious gaze.
I am the concrete shadow patch she hurries towards
            when screaming sunbeams scorch her bare feet
            (you never gave her shoes,
            convinced she’d never leave the kitchen).
 
I am impermanence, a chaotic storm calm in my eye
            (raging? only behind yours).
I am the ever-flowing tide erasing every single footprint
            and a living drought that has never known thirst.
 
I am the ever-present melody
            of cicada tambourines, bullfrog crescendos,
            and myrtle blossoms raining upon lips never torn.
I am those lips, clean of extrinsic blood.
 
I am the wayward lamb
            not prodigal nor sacrificial
                        but Grown
                                    into a sterile ewe
                                                with no need for a father.