apocalypse (22.a)

she tells you to stuff a live parakeet in your mouth that it isn’t really a parakeet that when you feel the head rub the roof of your dry mouth that it will become water or wine or whatever you believe it will be & you believe this because you have survived so many deaths your poor wings a cautionary tale for a microscopic revolutionary when the water wine whatever parakeet slithers down your throat you are compelled to want to compost yourself suck your own bones & spit them out in your hair

The Body as a Garden

*tree

the first time you realized your were uprooted your fingers were soiled but not dirty & you had no problem with smelling of sage & misfortune for who can unrecognized hive & honey. no sting to you just wings wings & more wings. the first (you realized) somebody tried to cut you down cut you off cut you to shame your dark rings you knew this was anciently worse than any circles bark//rougher than plant sex (plantation daughter) one root still remains like canal, like cavernous, like cambium on a cloudy day.

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Anastacia-Renee is a queer writer, workshop facilitator and multivalent performance artist. She is the author of (v.) (Gramma Press), Doll Face (Gramma Press) and 26 (Dancing Girl Press). Two books, Forget It (Black Radish Books) and Answer(Me) (Winged City Chapbooks-Argus Press), are forthcoming in 2017.