Half-Seeds

You pierce my heart with blunt arrows
and call it flesh wounds.

You send out words-
dull-tipped, carelessly cruel,
to find the softest soil
to plant your split seeds.

I hold them there
for a brief moment
like some half mauled memory-
until I turn them over
to find they were only half-seeds,
turning over what you said
and what you didn’t say.

I open my mouth to return
but my throat has become
a wound that dissolves words
before they arrive.

Meanwhile, the sea grass wakes up
in a bathtub full of ice,
every shard stuns into stillness,
and skin wrung of warmth,
like a peach, drained of its blush.

There is always a tide somewhere
that moves without the moon.
It keeps pulling down
a pulse within my body,
and still, nothing reaches my mouth.

And so nothing reaches you.