Young tendril, peregrine vine, a bud snakeheads back
and forth against the days as if there is a way, some way
out. Against glass
a slipping egg
of light, the delicate script we write between leaf and root
where your vein your open vein bursts
Seed pod, cracks.
Mother, don’t think this is heaven, the sound of you breaking
yourself, and crawling up again.