DREAM WITH GREEN WOMAN
- May 1
- 1 min read
By Elizabeth Reames
Vines are crawling out of my nose.
I am vomiting roots. I gag, and a taproot
splits my brainstem, spears its threads
through my synapses—out of my eyes
where tears should be, morning glories.
My sweat is petals. My breasts leak honey.
Vines are slithering out of my cunt—I am birthing.
A lotus head rocks in the bowl of my pelvis,
it breaches the birth canal, my walls strain,
I push—bog water splashes out, warm as womb—
I bear down again, I am caught in the crowning—
It will not come to blossom. The head will not be born.
She is here. She has done this to me.
She is behind me, cross-legged,
she winds her moss-fingers into mine,
she croons into my ears wordless comforts,
and so help me, I am comforted.
The head bursts out, blooms,
petals me apart.