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Writer's pictureSydney Elizabeth Chandler

We in the Dirt

In the ground, tree roots smell of sex,

of salt, of neither male nor female, but

that of becoming, of unbecoming, one

and every other their roots entangle,

suck, sing, slide,

into one another, a mapping of cross–

roads, a tangling and disentangling of

nerve endings, beginnings, locks of

rooted hair locked under wet,

smooth soil.

In the ground, we, as one length of

flesh, of egg, of stomach, wriggle and

writhe amongst the tree’s finger tips.

Without eyes, we see only with our

mouths, wide open. Drinking the

perfumes of fellow Fungi and Littered

Leaf, we take no pause at the meaning

of above,

or below.

To those who wallow atop Land, and

roast under Sun’s misunderstood gaze, we

in the dirt do not envy your feet on which you

move, or your eyes with which you blindly deliver

the “truth” your species

says to have seen.

We, under the trees, amongst the roots,

in the dark of dreams and growth and brine, have

not the power to lie through our blind,

mute mouths.

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