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Summer Solstice
When I was very, very fat, rotund
with hot hills and valleys, deep with purple
crevices and vapors, my belly a sizzling
horizon over which I could never see,
I sat on the old front porch on a patched
cushion, my puffed hands folded
across my steaming breasts.
I was bronze as a sun in those days, shining
with perspiration which often ran
like rain down the gully of my back, fell
occasionally toward evening in drops
like stars from my forehead.
Winter then was just a lacework
of bones, hardly a consideration
of skeleton buried deep and hidden
inside my bubbling and swirling,
my sweltering seethe.
I lay back, sank into my own blaze
and dozed, humming and snoring,
stirring a toe now and then, a twitch
of nose, all my keys turning, all my tressy
locks unlocked.
A citizenry of bumbles, a fiesta
of dragonflies in match-blue, in struck-gold,
whirled and hovered, pricked and darted
constantly about my girth. What a commotion
of blackbirds and flower pods rose
when I rumbled at noon, shifting slowly
from one gargantuan hip to the other.
I was so finely gorged, so beautifully
satiated. I sighed, pleased, rocked
and fantasized in the sheer breadth
of my own breathing, while one cool
green bead of bayou tree toad perched
crooning, lullabying low on the lip
and delve of my sheltering ear.
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Pretty Marsh Triptych II
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