Was Gardening

Unglued by an unseen tug
my seams ravel bolts of flesh,
a tangle of bloodshot roots;
a condition as manic as massacre,
as deadpan as science.

No breath to yelp, at once
made ripe in the sudden sun.
Peel me I'm so full.
All this heat you'd think
I'd parch - a thin, scrolled shriek.

An onion - I'm an artless metaphor.
The Doctor's glasses are empty pools
as he peels me. I struggle
to surface. They plow me under.
Pruning. Thinning. Horror.

Persimmon syrup, beet
stained. Bald and acidic,
dripping salves and slough.
My garden's gone wild -
an acre of frenzied pulp.

They change the black-stained sheets,
my scorched shroud. How useless!
The bed smokes when I touch it -
a hothouse where atoms shed
their yield in harvest.

Mar 22, 2009 John Goss