Morning Sprout

Morning

I keep waking at 3 or 4
or whenever the fertility
can no longer be contained
in this body of mine, shooting
out like flowers opening in stop
camera motion, turning to the sun.
I myself am turning to the kernel
of pomegranate lodged behind
my pelvic bone, craning inward
to feel it rapidly dividing me
here and here and especially here
turning colors like bruises,
tugging my tethers, bearing
seasickness and careless tears.
I am the field turned hurting
by the plow, my dark seams
closed over a seed,

a tiny uncurling sprout

unbending in my body, pushing

through layers and leaving me

wide-eyed under the covers,

awaiting its next move.