summer_jackel

She realized she had lost
something of herself along the way

(as we all do, as we all do----
there is nothing that is not eaten,
there is nothing that is not worn
ask the insect and the cordyseps)

and, looking for it, sadly, a little frantic
a little lost
realized
the corpses buried in the garden came to flower
after all
their fragrant nodding blossoms rising all around her
bright and soft and humid---
what you found, they sing
look what you've planted
look what you've found.





And hey, looks like I made it through another year of this exercise, only slipping up by getting in late once. I feel as though I should mention that the bit about the corpses and the garden in this one is an homage to/riffing off of T.S. Eliot. Thanks for reading!

There are bones in the earth.
This soft soil gives up its husks,
and the stream will flow for some while yet
as the dry hills crawl with wildflowers.

Run with us:
run long-snouted, long-legged, effortless;
we do not need our history, our future; those are yours
we know only
this morning
this spring breath
these bodies
we run, we run
and you:
you run with us,
now

Night falls full of little noises:
distant children, the cat purring
ducks quacking as they settle.

Did you feel it, just now---
somewhere in the dark water, at first
just a bump you might have imagined
but then
a more definite touch, the caress of
wet silk over long, smooth muscle,
distinct slime---
A big catfish?
A very big catfish?

this tiny forest orb-weaver
stretched her spiderling's first web between
these tender rose-tipped maple seeds---
her legs are translucent
and reflect the sky

The baby hound who
sins against the law of countertops to steal
his person's bowl of home-made kimchee
("it would probably strip paint")
has served his snout its own ideal correction
by cabbages turned violent;
pain served upon a bed of rice.

Green grass
webbed feet
mud
delight

Time has passed.
We have been somewhere
like this before, but still, not this place—-
these are different animals
we are different creatures, breathing
the same air,
rejoicing
we are not yet gone.

Turning, once again we come to center—-
the owl rising beneath a clear moon
the mallard winging upward into morning