Roots

Part of me that’s not on sale

Said I should wrap cellophane

around wrists

of strangers.

Clear them up, their skin so pale

Had less bruises,

Went to jail,

They cut through my woven tale.

 

What of me? Deeper the trail

Of blue eyes that plead for

Chains unraveling

Like I do…

Pull the ancient, awful veil

Off me, lone, frustrated, frail.

 

Yes, I’m plenty, 

Trees and fingerprints the same.

Jungle’s calling.

Moan my name,

I’ve been stared at, 

hide and tail

Me.

 

Let me dance.