Small Mercies

by Venus Knowles

Instead, can I pretend to be

a blossoming of flowers? A lilly

concrete in the center of my

chest. One foot's already

six feet underneath soil, so let the

other heel join it. In my solemness 

I remind myself of the times I

wanted to die, a small

mercy against an onslaught of

horrors - oakwood grows

as a weed against my arms, bark brown

against my skin. There is beauty

in the act of turning tree. In nature

poems that aren't, not really,

about nature. The bluejay outside

of my window knocks thrice

as a reminder: stay

alive, stay alive, stay alive.