Open my fist from it’s tightness
kiss the incisions that have been made
by my finger nails that should be black
my first fist reaches to the ground
my second to where my heart should be
an empty space that is waiting in the
shadows of my chest
it is waiting behind dark green vines
poison ivy
it is waiting behind dusty opaque windows
warm greenhouse
waiting for my fist,
my hand,
my heart,
growing
a deep red tomato
inside my palm
waiting for a
sheltered house
made of glass