co-operators are standing by

This used to be my neighborhood. The house I grew up in. It's been bought and sold many times, but I still belong to this land. I belong to the earth, these berries and flowers. I spread the seeds for future forests from the moment I took on form. I studied the grasses and searched the clover. I ate those leaves and berries, cried and cared for the animals and vulnerable around me. It's always been this way. I exist on a timeline that centers buying and selling, money and violence. Pursued, attacked, silenced. I'm still from here. We all are– the neighborhood secret that isn't online or advertised anywhere. Only locals know about it because it's for us. We take care of each other. We keep us safe. 

Immediately I felt that although I recognized them as my we, they saw me as them, an outsider, as if I don't belong here. I've been living across the street from you, around the corner my whole life and you're going to use these symbols, an outstretched hand, a shaved head, a style of dress, a particular color of scarf to signify what belonging is? You presume too much. This power you think you have is fleeting, it's not yours, it's only projected onto you. Worlds turn, winds continue to blow. What is high will be brought low, what's been made low will be uplifted. This is truth that stays true. 

Overrun with flowers
only one person, one connection begins

a web of relationship. Tending the garden.

I don't have access to earth. Don't get to
touch the ground or grow.

What we have isn't earth, it's dirt

between shards of broken glass, cigarette butts,
spit out gum, and bottle caps. Receive the meaning beneath words. 

Armfuls of blooms, freshly blossomed, withered

and crisp to the touch. I welcome all of it.
others' pent up frustration and anger simmering to a boil,

I gathered the petals to share what we have

and borrow what we need for survival.
Too poor to live in this world.