Spore
I float
high up at first,
then,
as if in a planetary gravitational pull,
rotate
effortlessly
without thought or effort
drift down
to the muddy depths
of my mother’s damp compost pile willfully waiting.
She stabs a trowel full of me,
carries it
towards a blue and white
Asian patterned porcelain pot
in the sunroom
by the back door.
There is dried blood,
the color of a copper wheat penny on the handle,
evidence of rose pruning last week.
She is careful not to let a clump of me fall.
She wants to root another child. One who can walk.
One less bent, less disabled
who doesn’t stagger, sway.
I can’t help it, she knows that.
In a few days he will send out a root.
Hyphae, thin as silk filament,
invisible line drawn from star to star
as if between those in the constellation of Orion.
Cytoplasm activated, he germinates.
My brother can stand.
He’ll wait until dark before changing beyond expectation or recognition,
shoving soil, a first step,
A thin and dirty wet footprint on the parquet floor
a cause for her elation, his mushroom head, a huge disappointment.
Ed Lent | Spore | I am a disabled person with Multiple sclerosis my poems reflect or hint at my mobility struggles or emotional stress i often feel as a person dealing with a handicap. This poem is about my imagined disappointment of a parent with a child who becomes disabled.