Megan Mary Moore

SHE WASN’T AFRAID OF INSECTS ANYMORE

When she walked through spiderwebs,
she didn’t refuse the silk, she rubbed it
into her forearm like lotion.

When her shoe stuck in the mud,
she walked on, letting her foot meet Earth
again, again, again.

 Her brain ached to lay down,
to live here, where webs and one bare foot
could disappear into some kind of decay
for Earth to play with until Earth was done.

But Earth wouldn’t have her.
Grew their vines up and around her,
politely declining her skin.

She laid for two months before she knew
the birds were laughing at her wandering,
lazy eye, never quite focused on the sun.

So, she washed seeds down her tub.
Shone lights down the pipes
watering with every shower
and slowly they grew,

purple cornflowers who wanted
to crawl inside her, her mouth, her nose,
her bellybutton. They petal-whispered Open up.

And she was buried, disappeared
under a tub field of flowers.
Hundreds of leaves, petals, stems,
and one blinking, lazy eye.

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