Samantha Harrison
I knew it was still not safe
to enter when I caught myself
grabbing the flowers by their throats.
I dig my nails deep
into the dirt’s flesh and see
it’s all still contrived.
I pull up a baby. It twists
and tries to spiral up around
my cervix like English ivy. I am
my boiler room breakdown:
I am a liar—I knew the ground
was still damned with man’s poison.
Who knew it would take all
these centuries to learn
to breathe again? Learn to be
a voice in an empty nursery.
Be the marrow of an animal’s bone.
I am trembling. I am anticipating
God’s shovel breaking the earth.
waiting for the spade
to turn up the shriveled genes.
Quiet now. We all tread
lightly on the damned soil.
Like we don’t know
what is beneath. How long
will it be unsafe to be here?
The soil cannot know.
Samantha (Sam) Harrison (she/her) lives in Indiana and is an English major studying at Franklin College. Her poetry has appeared in The Merrimack Review, Tiny Flames Press, Turnpike Magazine and Nymphs. In her free time, she draws cartoons and posts occasional thoughts on her twitter (@totallysamh).
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