Metamorphic Diary

Exhale—the xylem quells my lungs.

Listen: water. My incubator swings,

wired to the trees. Again the malnutritive

dawn: here is blood drawn, sap–

smeared & blue. Here is a body

or a drainage ditch. Mother hoaxed the astral

bodies: a warm nerve leashed

to warm nerve: no tenderness,

no cuticles. When I imagine

the future inching past the pines,

where no one could touch me,

defile me, ecdysis of love. Flesh shakes

the night apart—I am a golden bullion,

wrapped in sweat and fetal hide,

inchoate, devoid of progeny.

Human touch is so distant : : satellite.

Sometimes I ask the lake

and sometimes I ask the mountains

where the echo comes from,

the one that said come here

but lately, I’ve throttled all my questions—

lately, the armor fossilizes, rare stasis

all autumn and woman, spinulose creature

trusting solitude. Come dew, come

cells: each reverie rips, sprouting lice.