by Obi Martin

The seed of my life is aching,
yearning to fall from its height;
and find rest, find soil.
Tilled, and absolved of its drying
furrowed, brought back to dirt
burrowed, left face down to earth.

Giving and receiving the singleness
of context and placement.
The giving up of hours on end,
of days, of months.
The rooting and reminder of a certain
set of faces, a certain balance
completing the chemistry of soil.

Lay me down, and let me
lie across a lifetime, turning
my face ever downward to meet
its edges, pages and designs.
Demand I offer myself wholly,
and I will offer, hoping only
for a singleness of story,
a unity of every breath
bound in my last breaths telling.


The times that Obi Martin feels most alive come often when he is reading or writing. 

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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