If I wanted to, could I pack the spaces in my body with a rusty trowel?

I could push some seeds down deep into my flesh,

in between my bones.

Is my body fertile? What grows in cool shade?

               Coral Bells

               Dead Nettle

               Foamflower

               Lungwort

               Astilbe

               Foxglove

Many things. Many things could delicately poke out between my breasts.

There would be flowers, of course. 

Then there would be little bugs to eat the edges of their leaves and petals.

Little red, and blue, and green bugs with their small sticky feat.

I might not like them, but you can’t like everything that lives inside of you.

There would be chubby, pollen dusted bees drunk on fermented nectar.

I like them better. They can sleep their tipsiness away in my flowers.

Perhaps a bird might alight along my breastbone to pick at the worms writhing in the dirt.

Worms can live for years, many years.

Maybe they would live for years inside of me and bury themselves safe and warm,

curled up among my veins.

Roots could travel along the curves of my ribs and up into my neck and head.

They would twist around my pelvis.

They would share their water and nutrients with me. They would feed me.

They would warn me about drought and disease and insects and fire.

They would warn me.

I would hold them close until they felt safe.

A squirrel would bury an acorn deep in my stomach.

Dirt and bugs and flowers would spill out onto the ground around me.