Thaumatography

My chest is like a Rothko—flat and broad,
a field of flesh bisected by a line
of luminous white scars, blessing the blade
that pruned the fruits which once weighed down my spine.
I marvel at my voice’s jagged thrum,
its buzzing in my throat a hummingbird
joyfully beating supersonic wings
to shape my breath midair into a word.
Though it still grows erratic as a weed—
a patch of sedge or crabgrass in a crack
of trafficked sidewalk or deserted highway—
silver already peppers my beard’s black.
I grow, I increase, like slow-ripening grain,
devouring both the sunlight and the rain.

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