The Underbrush


I slip down the trail, lost

In my own psychotic imagination.

What was it? The tedious wanderings

Of a small child, trying

To find her way home—but trapped

By its twig ropes and leaf chains.


Where was I? The forest

Refuses to speak; a transformation

I must endure. Streaky-bleak skies, my

Only map out of nowhere.

Lilac irises parade along; they blind

My sight of the smooth horizon.


Ah, but I could stay here

Forever. Until the bathing greenery

Bloats to black swamp waters. The prickly

Underbrush holds me.

Who was home? Iron-thick fingers or

Wrinkly-soft palms; now faded ink.


Push, press, plead; nothing

Remains. Why should I? It can rip

My body as well—my soul will regenerate

Until I’m one with them;

My Mother of Earth. My Father of

Limbo. I’ll strain Goliath trees into home.


Shh, shh, shh. Rain cascades down

Faces of those previous dwellers—

Sobbing at their lack of want, at little

Strength in molding

To the underbrush. So, reality staggers:

What will be now? I’ll remain here.


⌊ © Serena Delgado (May, 2018) ⌉

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