Poem: "kept"

the_vulture

siege

the_vulture

when I pulled up my roots from Homesoil
to wander among the stars, at first even I did not know
what it was that I wanted, what unfulfilled need made me restless

I tumbled into the discovery only by chance,
when I saw a gardener on the way to a conference
with his pet tree cradled carefully in his lap, ancient and precious

that was when the perverse desire
unfurled within me, but I thought that surely
no one would want to keep another person as a pet

I had seen the humans in their gardens,
melded with the land as its living servants, but the pet tree
was different, mobile rather than sessile, and I envied it greatly

another chance brought me to the Freedom System,
where I discovered that humans do indeed keep each other
as pets, sometimes, when that is how their bodies and spirits bend

I began to wonder if I too could have
what they have, the pet tree and the pony boys,
here in this place where humans have chosen to cultivate desires

it took me a long time to find my gardener,
seeking through the plant shows and the pet shows until
I found someone willing to break this strange new ground with me

he was young, then, yet already
a master of his craft; he introduced me
to all of his bonsai, handed down through his family

I looked at the row of beautiful pots
and the tiny, thriving trees on their imaginary mountains
then I settled myself beside them and gave myself into his care

no one understands why
I would want such a thing as I want,
to be kept by a gardener instead of growing wild

I myself do not understand why
I should be this way; I only know that
it is how Brown Goddess and Green God have made me

how can they reach with their deep roots
the delicate breadth of my devotion to my gardener
or the way he contains me as surely as ceramic and soil?

they see only the shallowness of my pot,
not the fact that I am never hungry, never thirsty,
cared for completely, rather than at whim of rain and shine

how can they grasp with their wild vines
the quick careful pinch of his tender fingers
and the pleasure-pain of removing unwanted buds?

they see only the strangeness of my shape,
not the joy of being sculpted by the artistry of his choices,
the sunlit heat of his hands, the warm moist wind of his breath

these days, when we go
to the plant shows and the pet shows
it is he who carries me in his strong tawny arms

and it is I who stands forth
as the pinnacle of his craftsmanship,
shaped not by chance but by choice, shaped with love