BRADLEY DAVID

MY ALLIES UNDERGROUND

I spit sap on every seed—I have so much to give so many.

Time capsules settle into darkened bleacher seats and take in my dancing dramas.

What it must be like coming to life in the resuscitation of my enzymes.

When the hot spotlight turns from my fumbling performance to their perfect emergence.

Do they fear I’ll pluck their spindly stems to give star players room to move on the field?

Is that the pressure they’ve felt reffed underfoot under my thumb?

I admit, sometimes I dream of perfect fruit futures suitable for a prime-time debut.

But in the end, I prefer trunks queer like the lightning-struck bristlecone pine.

Twisted and wicked like when lightning mangled my limbs.

My splits epoxied with amber resin jewels that keep my future trapped in time.