Pica

Baby bird in the bushes, I scooped
handfuls of dirt, the minerals the body

craved at my fingertips. Taste of metal,
the earth’s iron, hand to mouth,

one gritty girl. I was
fed by the soil. Then, a proclivity

for paper captured on film, crawling
Christmas morning in heaven,

grazing the wasteland of wrapping
paper scraps. We eat what we need.

The ground and the seed:
a forest already growing inside me.

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