The seeds were ferried across in bottles,
and found their way
to the shop round the corner.
You could snap the lid off with one hand.
Then you’d tip them between your lips,
gobble them like water.
They were red and shiny,
traces of juice still on them. You licked it clean
so no one would see –
what did you think we’d think?
Seeds, maybe hundreds,
swimming in your gut, your blood, your brain,
burrowing. Of course we noticed.
They got to the top of your blood vessels
and reddened your skin. They flushed themselves
down your nervous system. Or dizzied, you’d trip
and seeds would spill from the crack.
Then we’d put you to bed,
watch you reach sleep
while they squirmed under your skin.
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