Bug Mother Box (Flower Girl Part 2)
The Flower Girl wanders,
crawls through the dense forest,
disoriented and hopelessly absent
behind her own eyes.
Old leaves like piles of corpses
are brown and rotting,
a winter not cold enough for snow-
the ground feels slimy on her skin,
smoggy and wet; the sky a deep gray
like a disappointed face
arrived to suck the soul from trembling lips.
Humidity sticks itself
all over her naked body, dewdrops fall
into her open chest and the air
envelops around shrivelled organs,
a sternum made hollow from exposure,
past a cracked pelvic bone
and gnarled fallopian tubes
twisted tightly all around their walls
making every step feel heavy
and every rattle of an organ
seem like her insides could fall
right out from her bottom lips;
like a body breaking the surface of water,
like a stillborn child, something once within
but ripped away in confusion and grief,
like every winter she couldn't remember.
Her flowers have all died now,
she's pulled out all the stems
there was once so much comfort in,
and her legs proceed to bleed,
all up and down, with thorns and dirt
lining her hands, thighs and feet.
Her ankles, still bound
by deep and unseen underground roots,
brown shackles thick and wide
that pull up with each step,
decimating the soil as she goes,
but still she cannot cut them off.
Her brain starts to spin as vertigo sets in,
she falls down in resignation,
wallowing in pain, waiting for death
to snatch her weary soul away
when a huge, hairy spider- a tarantula
the size of her palm runs itself
right along her body, as if to analyze
the big dying thing.
Uninhibited, it passes right by her then,
over to the base of a large sycamore tree
with its fat trunk and expansive branches.
The spider stands atop
a small wooden box, camouflaged
by the decay that surrounds it,
and stares back at her,
eye to lateral eye, almost daring her
to discover the secrets inside,
as if they were waiting only for her.
She picks the box up and opens it as
the spider glides onto her shoulder to witness.
Inside it lies large needles and thread,
and a dirty, off-white dress she felt
must have once been hers, and pictures
of people she used to know,
memories she no longer has
of herself and others- her baby photo,
the recognition clicks,
had WELCOME BACK written in red
on its side. She finds an empty journal
and a cup of black ink- must have forgotten
a fountain pen or two- a fresh pink zinnia
sits quietly where one should be.
Meanwhile, hoardes of insects
fly out almost impossibly, like they never
awakened until she opened the lock.
Cockroaches and ants, butterflies
and caterpillars, centipedes and spiders
run along her skin like children,
rushing to her aid, to play their games
and pull her through the fog.
Flower girl takes the needles
and sews herself back up
with the thread, crying out,
pulling skin together section by section,
beginning at her pelvis
all the way up
to her throat, where the needle
hangs like jewelry, grazes her chest
like a necklace, a constant reminder
of how easy it would be
to succumb to the unraveling of agony,
and how much anguish one body must hold
in order to heal the spirit.
With the blood-spattered zinnia
in one hand, the box
of forgotten posessions in the other,
she covers her mangled body with the dress
and her shaky legs gain strength
to walk, pulling up her roots
as she moves.
The insects follow her- centipedes insist
on resting along her back as spiders
steal her shoulders,
caterpillars and ants crawl up and down
to tighten her stitches as three
small but beautiful butterflies
fly into her chest through the open space,
the fluttering of their wings
causing her heart to beat once again
ressureccting the insides so ready to die.
Their vibrations bring her back to life,
and sometimes you can see them flying,
keeping watch through the gaps of skin
on her torso. The cockroaches lead her
from the forest floor, zooming
across her ankles to help her find direction.
They all follow the roots now,
hoping they will finally lead her home
as they embark on the next trail
carrying the first pieces
of a dauntingly large cosmic puzzle,
surely coming upon
the end of the beginning.
Gray skies turn to black
as the night rises,
and the real test commences
for Flower Girl- no longer sitting, idle
and waiting for nothing, but preparing
to face every inner wound she hid from.
Not knowing where she's going,
still she walks with grace and energy;
for there are too many monsters left to slay
to stay in one place in unjustified comfort.
Flower Girl becomes Bug Mother,
embraces the darkness
and lets the distress lead her.
The amnesia will show her the way-
a path backwards in time,
moments uncovered and exorcised
to lead her mind forward-
without knowing, she knows it all.