We of the Luminous Green
Bobby Parrott
I need not yield to the yellow police tape strung vine-like
around your flower-tipped parts, the ones that draw my curly child-
face into green. I only have to give the ancient insect cocooned
in my body permission to uncoil its arms and pray. Remember
broken branches, yours, and I will sing to you the greening rhapsody
of my own shattered limbs. I feel your first push, imagine fat tadpoles
on the move. If our romp gets boring, I’ll just bite off the emerald triangle
of your head, bulbous B-movie space-alien eyes incredulous. You’ll fuck
much better, luminous in the unthinking of your godlike glands.
Don’t worry, little Greenie! We’ll let your stick-bug stalk do the talking.
Because like us, the forest’s thorny soul strikes its budding fuse
into hearts already pumping chlorophyll. We the active capsule humans
call love. We who know my frayed roots care nothing for the foreign
event of flowering. We who see everything in green, for nothing only blooms.
Bobby Parrott's poems appear or are forthcoming in Spoon River, RHINO Poetry, Poetic Sun, Star*Line, Clade Song, and elsewhere. Immersed in a forest-spun jacket of toy dirigibles, this writer and musician dreams himself out of formlessness in the chartreuse meditation capsule known as Fort Collins, Colorado.