Cease, Cows

Omen | Kerry Campion de Santiago
We cradle a palmful of
little black seeds. I expect them
to jump - like fleas. But they
stay flat; dead.
They clot together in a
bulbous mass like a
tumour, sticky and clumpy
in our damp hands.
We scrape them off - and watch
as they plummet to their glass
coffin. We dump some soil
on top: burying them alive.
After a month their tendrils,
their spindly little limbs, remain
unsprouted. Their soft heads uncrowned.
They need moisture
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