green-seethed girl, fanged and dirt-dotted, unpaled, dissembling moons
cool in spring decay and hot steaming grass rising through her
colorless sockets, her unmade nose, her disintegrated scalp housing
disborn dreams and chiggers; gasoline ground wet with their small
runsoff her oil-pure teeth her nowhere tongue; her body was struggling
elsewhere growing where it was not seed, not birthing soon against all
odds all flowers face but denied in dead earth--the lie of spring
was fructification to the bleached raisined girl, unpicked and unplanted,
unmeaning angel to burnedup larva but
looking from the moon she was a pure pearl, full icy culmination,
the world finally unmade whole
in the dead of equinox.
© Copyright 2016 Caroline Michaud. All rights reserved.
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