Hi, all you beautiful brains! What I mainly want to know is should I continue, or do I lose you before I’ve said what I came to say? I know I haven’t actually said that thing yet, but if this start warrants it, I’ll keep working on it until I get there.
I assume I’m sexy,
stalking through leaves of spice and decay
thinking with each undulation of rump and hip and thigh
of my animate machine,
taking in oxygen, expelling its complement,
taking in poisoned narratives
by gulps and pissing them out,
neutralized, to re-enter the beloved nutrient cycle.
And there’s that stand of trees, or trees that stand,
fourteen or more saplings, around the dual-gendered parent.
Sycamore dryads, paper-white and smooth-skinned, circle the mother-father,
split and craggy where it meets the ground, in a perpetual holy moment of communion, handing out chemical mysteries in the language of mycelium.
How many generations has it given rise to? And how many yet to come?
The number of potential souls that I might have
provided entry to was determined before I was born.
Those bags were packed, sealed, and delivered
before the 17-year-old, bell-bottomed bride said
whatever it was she said to my mutton-chopped dad.
Before his truculent and unbaked psyche kicked
the cat through the wall, shot and ate his daughters’ Easter bunnies,
and found transcendentalism.