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Tiny Seedling

Magdalena Azmitia

The night you first sprouted
from between the cracks
of the earth: just down the
street I could hear the high-
pitched grind of crashing
metal on metal, followed by
Nearby an elderly woman with
only half of her mind remembered still
to hug her purse close to her breast as
she scurried from the check
cashers, after all this time still so
Upstairs we curled ourselves into
our sheets to block out the neon
red of the “XXX” signs below
us, bars on the window to separate
us from the ill-intentioned figures
that sometimes peered in from the fire
Still, I remember you as I wade into
sleep, budding from between cracks
in the asphalt, reminding me that
beautiful things can still bloom, even