Communion

At four, I knelt in the garden 
beside my grandmother, hands full 
of seed, as she covered them one 
by one with dark, loamy soil. This 
is how I learned devotion. 

At eleven, I rumbled on a sunset-
hued tractor across our handful 
of acres, surrounded by cow pastures 
& poultry farms. Sun-soaked and 
lonesome, 

I planted zinnias & bachelor’s buttons, 
my bedroom flecked with bees & bundles

of blooms. I lived in rhythm with okra 
& moonrise, sat in the truck bed at dusk,
 
watched the stars forget themselves 
in the cradle of hills. The coyotes 
taught me about hunger; 

the barn swallows, about flight. 
The chicks, that some small things 
must be tended or die. 

I didn’t know the shape of the secret 
I held—only that I wasn’t like 
the others. So, I pulled my hands 

from the dirt, let the garden die. Moved 
to town, to a silence that ached 

differently. Years passed before 
I returned to the soil, before 
I understood that queerness was not 

the thing that pulled me away, 
but the reason I belonged. Now 
I grow cosmos & forget-me-nots, 

share tomatoes & eggs with friends. 
I will always bring her flowers 
before they fade. 

This dirt underneath my fingernails 
is my birthright, inherited from women 
whose tenderness 

I must carry forward like a dream for a future 
where I am delicate & vibrant & wild & alive.