Identity

Let them be as flowers,
always watered, fed guarded, admired,
but harnessed to a pot of dirt.

I’d rather be a tall, ugly weed,
clinging on cliffs, like an eagle
wind-wavering above high, jagged rocks.

To have broken through the surface
of stone,
to live, to feel exposed to the madness
of the vast, eternal sky.
To be swayed by the breezes of an
ancient sea.
carrying my soul, my seed, beyond
the mountains of time
or into the abyss of the bizarre.

I’d rather be unseen, and if
then shunned by everyone,
than to be a pleasant-smelling flower,
goring in clusters in the fertile valley,
where they’re praised, handled, and
plucked
by greedy, human hands.

I’d rather smell of musty, green stench
than of sweet, fragrant lilac.
If I could stand alone, strong and fee,
I’d rather be a tall, ugly weed.

-Julio Noboa Polanco