Sprouts
I walk into the kitchen. Two little sprouts grow out of two new cracks in the tile. I make myself eggs but end up giving them to the sprouts. I give them glasses of water and they grow into plump little trees. I lie down on the kitchen floor to go to sleep. The trees grow fat fleshy bellies and patches of fur instead of leaves. They bounce up and down and they make sounds like pigs grunting. They bounce and jerk violently until their roots are completely out of the cracks. Free, they buck around the kitchen like small wild horses, their grey bark glistening with a layer of sweat, trampling and stomping on me with their muddy wads of root. And you know what? I let them. There’s so much life in these two, and look at me, lying on the floor, waiting to be trampled to death.
