DOOMMOOD

poems about being a body

1

to my incorporeal self:

envisage the discordant mass of your failings,

once-firm resolve collapsing into panic of inevitable oblivion,

the terror-tinged beauty of becoming

and The Way woken by pain that smarts

2

to sublimate:

i wander in homage to the assemblage of mirrors

i would ask that you bathe me in smoke

while we preserve witches’ jelly & wizards’ jam

in my winter dreambody

we both dip into the vernal pool

in my fertile fortress

i am wading through my fields of impenetrability

in the zone of my morning birth

i discover a sanctuary

3

it is time to blend in,

recede into the thicket,

take time to feel my bark,

reside within myself,

settle into bones

4

you hold

my squash blossom

in your tender elfen hands

lithe and strong like a slender bow

5

The Chyld Moon

i bandaged cracked soul with a bandeau

and each time the moon rises,

i cry for my inability to make this verisimilitude veritable

6

i have the following written in cuneiform for posterity.

ESTROGENESIS:

i am leaving Flatland.

i am a woman with new flesh covered in estrogen grime.

i’m guarded by a two-headed hydra.

7

i carry multitudes within me: solids, algae, silts, particulate.

every movement made of tiny waves of unctuousness

8

in the grotto heart, my limestone center,

touch is everything.

i bathe and lift enchantment to another plane.

wellspring of joys. hidden caress of the subterranean lake.

concealed desire, now cracked, flows into the rich admixture.

alluvial manors, effluvial manners:

rare salts of love on my inner walls.

9

egg: it’s a passive, dormant state.

or perhaps a thing you grow out of, like my suffocating adolescence.

and yet, “oogenesis,” “ova,” “ovum,” “egg,”

these words mean something nascently powerful.

10

when i say “egg” i think of opal, abalone shell, or pearl.

precious but potent

something that glimmers in the moonlight,

something that radiates its own dawn

11

when i began to no longer fight myself,

i did not break my egg like ouroboros.

my eggs have always been inside me.

a dream clutch in my tummy

i carry my eggs, whether they are physical or not (they are not),

i have stopped caring if my barren flesh is host to a sick delusion

i may not carry real human female eggs capable of life,

but i still hold on to my spawn, and try to accept

the ovaries on top of my skin.