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Compost

Jess Whetsel

after “From the House of Yemanjá” by Audre Lorde

I have two faces and a flower pot

filled with stale soil and wood chips
and a sprinkle of coffee grounds.


I have two faces and one cradles
my failures in her hands, watches
them writhe like worms before
spiraling into the dirt. She pulls
a seed from her pocket, presses it
into the earth with her thumb,

rubs her palms to dispel the dust.

I have two faces and the other
turns away to hide her shame.
She only wants the bright bloom,

does not see the magic in burying

her grief, misses the tiny green tendril

already sprouting from the kernel
of her cracked-open dreams.

I have two faces and one says
it’s just a flower pot; the other
calls it her lineage of hope.

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