sun-dried plants

The Poem

The sun-dried plants
(you call them husks, I call them bait)—
desiccated, dismembered,
are scattered through the
shallow woods
where I seek to lure the
cicadas, ants, and cockroaches

My story is an old tree
half fallen—maybe twice—
where insects burrow deep
—tiny Marco Polos—
into old wood wound in tight knots
(their mortal error becomes evident—
nature heeds the scribe named
nurture, who writes in cuts and gashes—
these adventurers carry none—

I will empty their burden—
like the suppleness of a dead lilac’s stem,
whatever they could learn is forgotten as I wrap them in my tongue
and swallow until they’re silent)

yet to gaze at the stranger’s error and mistake
and cocoon them ’til they’re as intimate as confidants
comes at the very
very
last.

Commentary

I wrote this originally back in 2009. I took an intro to creative writing class and got my feelings hurt pretty badly about my writing, but overall, I think it helped me improve. This poem reflects when I started focusing more on imagery than content. I was also reading a lot of ee cummings at the time.