Deep within me is a seed.
You cannot reach it by probing.
One day perhaps, with the right feeding,
it will sink a root, burgeon a flower,
and its poisonous shadows will appear on my skin.

Who can be nearer in kin than a daughter
to a mother? Half the genes, the same sex,
a general expectation of looking alike.
But how far do I to want to push this, daughter of a suicide
who worked as a secretary and wanted to dance?

This seed’s an inheritance I can’t refuse,
a vine that could wrap itself around my life,
producing crazy flowers as it goes, just like the Bongleweed.
But mine’s not the only one. Flowers from these seeds
bloom everywhere, sprout unexpectedly in strange places,

fruit themselves with shame and ruined weekends.
No, my seed’s not alone; but too often we who remain
are left alone, hoping spring will not come.