PEDUNCLES

By Farah Lawal Harris, 2024

Static fills my right hip, crrrrsppppp crrrrsppppp!

Begging for a kiss, a loosening.

Despite her shallow roots, my Hoya Hindu rope

has grown peduncles—

Think of them as arms reaching toward the sun,

as worshippers who bloom flowers

I hear smell like cinnamon!

Soon, I’ll wear a bun.

This time last year, I was bald as a baby’s bum.

This realm is fun.

I will grow old like my paternal grandmother

who transitioned at my master number.

Venerating my deep roots, my soul

has grown peduncles.