The ancient Chinese planted prisoners above
bamboo shoots, and watched them grow into
their victims—

I worked poppy seeds into my hair with hotel
soap, seeded redwoods in my veins with the edges
of loofahs

and hoped the stems would grow inward. Maybe
they’d wrap around my brain, grow forests beneath
my skin,

but instead they sprouted below my pillow. The
sheet exacerbated by the fog. The mattress
dipped behind

my body and the boxspring, sun salted by the
window, dissolved between my hands. How odd
it is to crave

that sort of torture.