Ivy

 

by Marcyn Campbell-Ogbunezu

Growing over my dilapidated ruin, once there was only disrepair as far as the eye could see

A lost cause, doors that wouldn’t open, windows that wouldn’t shut 

I was a house that was a ghost of a home, within just remnants of what had been

An iron tea kettle rusted over a brilliant ochre 

What before served the family at meals around the hearth sat for eons untouched

The soul of what once was haunted all I could see, all I could feel 

There was nothing but decay, nothing but stagnation and rot all around 

Murky pools of water sit in what used to be a washbasin, cobwebs adorn all the eaves

There was nothing, there was nothing, and then somehow there was you 

From a sprout that lit my world in a vibrant green hue, a fire sparked in a pitch black room

At first I did not understand, at first I couldn’t fathom what you meant, who you were

Then you grew leaves and vines, winding and twisting over the entirety of my facade

Wrapping yourself around ruddy brick and mortar, climbing walls like it was meant to be

Breathing life into where there had been absence for so long 

Ivy, I’m covered in you, consumed by you, understood by you 

With every new vine that wraps itself around my roof, or winds up the chimney

I am awoken, I am something worth remembering, something worth loving 

You brought the birds to nest and perch on your branches 

Brought the insects to feed and flitter all about 

Brought the mammals to chitter and chase each other around

Brought the humans to gaze upon, with amity to my once hallowed ground 

 

Marceline (Marcyn) Cassiopeia Campbell-Ogbunezu is a 21-year-old transgender woman who lives at the crossroads of multiple intersections. She is a plus-sized neurodivergent Nigerian trans woman who is currently living in Middletown, Connecticut.