inchworm
—delicate earth finger, still foolish?
Yes. Deep February soil, cold and
forever, seeps into heavy-needled
fingers, it is headed the inchworm’s
way. Slick-headed baby empties its
canopy, sapped in vomit on its journey
to the bottom of lakes, it seeks below.
We watch it: the body eat the light,
sweet bark becomes turned over,
scraped from the feet of birds, who
no longer eat fish. Their leftovers
given to the gods of snow fallen
lakes, the submerged mudskipper.
Watching slow legs scramble in
their walk, the ice-sky falls and so
does the light, a comet tail of hair
is lassoed on arthropodin corpses.
Do we know where the light goes?
—No. The cold front is stuffed in
the soft gut, violently—to satiate
hungry organs and eyeless faces,
with napkins sewn of algae and bone.
Yes. Deep February soil, cold and
forever, seeps into heavy-needled
fingers, it is headed the inchworm’s
way. Slick-headed baby empties its
canopy, sapped in vomit on its journey
to the bottom of lakes, it seeks below.
We watch it: the body eat the light,
sweet bark becomes turned over,
scraped from the feet of birds, who
no longer eat fish. Their leftovers
given to the gods of snow fallen
lakes, the submerged mudskipper.
Watching slow legs scramble in
their walk, the ice-sky falls and so
does the light, a comet tail of hair
is lassoed on arthropodin corpses.
Do we know where the light goes?
—No. The cold front is stuffed in
the soft gut, violently—to satiate
hungry organs and eyeless faces,
with napkins sewn of algae and bone.
postpartum grocery shopping
I buy a head of butter lettuce. I sit
at my kitchen table, dissecting
leaf from bulbous and velvet
stem. I shove loose heads into
my mouth, the farther in I go, the less
alive it all seems.
There is a carcass on a leaf,
a bug. He ate like a king in
a prison, his jailer a plastic
tub. I eat him too.
The lettuce has circular abysses as I move
towards its center, the functional holes
provide airway for my tongue that is
gripping soft green bone like paint thinner,
hoping to shrink its body, consuming its
desiccated calcium.
I tuck myself into the refrigerator,
next to mason jars of pickled
children’s breath. Outside the moon
glares in to touch my arms, I want
to whisk its nocturnal yolk into
my gullet, I hope to devour
my son back into my ribs, his
vast body emptied like jellyfish
bile on the beach where his father
proposed to me. I wish I could have
said no, if only to protect name-filled eggs
inside me—useless.
at my kitchen table, dissecting
leaf from bulbous and velvet
stem. I shove loose heads into
my mouth, the farther in I go, the less
alive it all seems.
There is a carcass on a leaf,
a bug. He ate like a king in
a prison, his jailer a plastic
tub. I eat him too.
The lettuce has circular abysses as I move
towards its center, the functional holes
provide airway for my tongue that is
gripping soft green bone like paint thinner,
hoping to shrink its body, consuming its
desiccated calcium.
I tuck myself into the refrigerator,
next to mason jars of pickled
children’s breath. Outside the moon
glares in to touch my arms, I want
to whisk its nocturnal yolk into
my gullet, I hope to devour
my son back into my ribs, his
vast body emptied like jellyfish
bile on the beach where his father
proposed to me. I wish I could have
said no, if only to protect name-filled eggs
inside me—useless.
✱✱✱
| Moira J. is an agender, Indigenous writer who explores sexuality, spirituality, trauma and displacement through means of origin stories, fictional narratives, and magic. They currently live and write in Oregon, with the support of their spouse, and the family pet: Dana Scully. Moira J.'s poems have been published in Girls Get Busy Zine, i-D Magazine, Toe Good Poetry, Naugatuck River Review, Bayou Magazine, and Poetry Quarterly. You can find more of Moira J.'s work at moirajwriting.tumblr.com, or on twitter @moira__j. |
