Day 2: my veins are now vines. There’s been another security breech in which my capillaries have shed like snakes and are now webbed rhizomes. It had, all along, been a conspiracy of spores. My wrists suddenly shone green while I wrote, photosynthesizing at 3pm. A hand jerked to my head to check if there were leaves and there weren’t; I breathed and let my vascular neurons pollinate, microscopic blossoms bursting with every fired synapse behind my eyes. The vines filling up my casing stopped. But, at that point, I found I wanted them to burst from under my fingernails and take up the pen for me; they never did. Nor did the bees stick-and-poke words on the wall or my skin yesterday to help me decipher any code.
You can feel yourself slowly emerging.
The yawning embryonic dinosaur step.
Blink. Ventilate. Eyelash away
the eggshell snow
from the face.
Blink. Blink Crack the knees tap the
spine stretch longer the tap, the
catch of the flyspeck on the snout, and smell
the deeply acrid ray of dawn to softly sting the brow.
Your corpus crosses a
homeland wreckage blooming green
unfurling a dome like the halcyon fern
A Mosaic planetarium made
from webs and epidermis-thin iron
so that magnanimous faces pressed to it
stringed with freckled lumens