THE BAMBOO’S INSOMNIA 2

Once upon a time, there was a seed, the tiniest speck in a dark sea of soil. But this seed did not know he was a seed; he was smaller than a fish eye. No light penetrated the dark soil, and so he broke himself open, and he stretched parts of himself into this soil, grabbed a hold of it and pushed himself upward. Lightbound, he pushed and grew into a tangle of eyes and hair and tendrils, thickening.

 

It occurred to him he had not yet learned to speak or to breathe. And so he grew himself into taut stalks, breaking soil, anticipating sky, while tendrils pulling water through his veins toughened him. He did not know his own name, but he knew rumors and dreams of air and mischievous birds.

 

This place before him was not a void but a crawl space, a tunnel he carved for himself inside his mother’s body dying all around him. He broke right through her. He knew no other way.

 

There is no known portrait of her face, he now laments. Only my mosaic of many scattered stones.