The Way Up


Precious the dung.
Holy the manure flower.
The baby burp of your mistakes,
the coffee stains in your blood,
the wine in your tears,
the Reese's wrappers
hidden in your bra,
this swollen bud
of your impeccable soul,
filtered through loam and loathing.
Compost your sins,
don't try to cast them out.
That just postpones
the fester of sweetness.
Here is what happens in tombs
and bridal chambers,
among mushrooms and lovers:
wounds ripen into juice.
Be the fertilizer.
Fracture your seed.

This is the only way up
to the rose.