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) ⌉