A
s a boy he believed that by swallowing seeds plants would take
root inside him.
As a result, he guzzled seeds with gusto.
In the garden, unmonitored, he squished small fruits. Sticky-palmed, he
licked the seeds from his hand.
He felt twinges as shrubbery stirred inside him.
Swallowing seeds from any available source, he imagined all manner of
plant life sprouting forth.
Taking long, deep breaths, he pictured an internal breeze rustling the leaves
of hidden trees.
At night, he believed that this leafy landscape levelled with him. Whilst he
slept, the forest would lie flat, would follow the path of his spine’s curved
horizon. When he rose, the forest would shift with him, reconfigured,
dense, branches reaching upwards within his ribcage.
In the family greenhouse, his father explained why he cut back the branches
of plants, that if he didn’t they would continue to grow, smashing through
the glass as their twisted limbs inched skyward.
Upon this lesson on the nature of growth, he became nervous. Whilst he
revelled in the idea that things were taking root inside him, he grew concerned that he did not have space to accommodate them. Forest-full, he
would check his reflection for external signs: twigs protruding from his
ears, branches imprinted from within.
Skipping down the road his feet would refuse to leave the ground as they
approached mighty trees, their roots visibly un ͕