She grows from the roots up
through ferns,
stretches spindly stem
toward blue.
Inside her is thrum,
that thing
that makes sap splurge.
Without hands,
she can’t play music,
bake, shape clay.
She can’t sketch, draw, paint.
Cannot knit, stitch, sew,
saw, hammer, weld,
throw a ball or dig.
She can’t even hold a baby
or a gun.
But she can
edit the earth,
insert new seeds.
She can
raise barky arms,
rustle, creak,
welcome
woodpecker, ant, newt.
Poem by Amy Gordon.
Amy Gordon’s first chapbook of poems, Deep Fahrenheit, was published by Prolific Press in 2019. She lives in Western Massachusetts. www.amyagordon.com