POLYGON

a sodden, heavy pirouette---
An oak leaf falls. You press it into your palm…the spikes make little craters in your hand.
Years pass,
you are crying
so the world will go round,
the craters fill and the Indians grind their hard, purple corn in them.
They scoop out the meal, mix it with your tears
And feed their children

Little estuaries spring up, geysers from the crook of your elbow
The children pinch their noses
Men come
And build boardwalks
you are rubbing dust into your
eyes, you are
folding spores into your skin
your muddy marrow and your salty blood
Your bitter lips and your spiny ribs.