Sibyl-Vane

Sibyl-Vane

I was old enough to be war

when I first believed in osmosis

bow-tied to the importance

of what it would drown like

to be wound-breathing

and what glaze would rub

to finally have intention

of assembling myself in places

to be orderly and uniform

as goes with the sways of white beam

and the give-and-take of shepherd's' purse

that lined the scene there

amongst the rest of the children

t-black palm marked foreheads

to remind we were resurrected

To be epitomized by meridian

it was only skirt-length dripping

that the button down

was due to the many afternoons

spent waiting around in vehicles

in humid stomach unease -became-

the feeling that the frond

would become less nature

and more needle

or- maybe- the inverse

to fit whatever was left of me

into leaflet rounded universes

fear became puncturing- became-

the hope to be ruptured -became-

what I imagined bark tasted like -became-

my mother birthing me

she was always just -becoming-

folding laundry

her blood looked like rouge

only mildly misplaced

and grabbing glass to fill me in -my becoming-

I'm born into a polo shirt

teeth keys humming and suddenly

floating around by the string

of my mother's hair

and looking pleased with myself

for good birth-giving

I had uprooted

the issue of penetration

given the issue of driving

when I decided to reef knot

germanium to the fence

I had tethered myself

to a silent girlish plea

in suspension of sandpapering

to absently believe

that if I let the root

snake there, to reverse-Eve,

sunlight would be a later concern

-in becoming- ready for something

to enter and make

its way through.