Grounding Juliana Guarracino

When my house was built mother buried crystals across the land black tourmaline by the treeline pyrite by the gravel road hematite under the front door runes of protection sealed with sage she’d trace the perimeter with bare feet filling the air with smoke praying under her breathe a terrestrial ritual beneath a full moon she’d say streets are just asphalt meant to be crossed meant to crumble from blades of grass flourishing in its fissures ripe wounds turned verdant scars i always knew drop seeds and dragons blood instead of lawns and landscaping and mother never taught me the word property most evenings i’d trespass the swaying palm tree beyond my house to dance among the smooth stones to bathe in the cerulean creek to admire the forest’s emerald green crown because the land knew no bounds besides the ocean and the ocean knew no bounds besides the shore by the time the sky burned orange i’d reach the foliage at the foothills and i’d know to turn back because there are directions in the dirt hidden in its veins and maps in the sky sewn into the constellations when I see home i see yucca tall grass a mother lighting sandalwood and i remember that the ground has no name that wire cannot do the job of mountains that signs are as temporary as footsteps washed away and days eclipsed by midnight that the soil is always humming with music and soaking in the aroma of crushed garlic and that blood is not just ichor but roots