'The Seed' by Peggy Riley

On the new moon, plant a seed of anger.   
Water it with tears, piss, vomit and dark, dark blood: all you have.  

By the sickle moon, skinny light, wait for a sign.
This is your last chance: you know that now.

In time, a shoot, one slim spike of palest green.
Feel the stab of dumb hope: once it would have cracked you open.  

Nothing can take root here – but get down on your haunches to be sure.
Yes: something could be growing. The moon still does.

(They say men walked up there once. Bully for them.  
They also say it once burned bright, but you cannot remember.)

First quarter. One leaf.
Don’t touch, for fear it might recoil: you could not bear that.

When ash winds blow, make a shelter.
Block weather with the great house of your body.  

If a tendril finds your wrist, let it coil itself about you. Be support.
This is all you ever wanted, not to be alone.  

Waxing gibbous, the thing you planted will unfurl a red bud,
angry as an eye. Let it see you.

They say that you should leave this place: there is nothing left for you.
But all you want is down here, reaching up for light.  

Once the moon is full and dull, the thing you planted will bloom.
Hot and sharp, it will smell like rotting meat, like you, but you must seize it.

Wrench it. Haul its roots up, hairy as ancient carrots. Pale in dark dirt,
all you buried, all you tried to grow and can’t forget.  

Feel its warmth, this thing grown from your anger.  
Nobody can bring back what you lost, but feel it:

pulsing, beating, pressed against your flesh:
a red seed reminding, insisting that you live.