To the Artist's Page To our home page
To Brent M. Parker's previous piece To Brent M. Parker's next piece
The Musnake I've found her In each of these, you know, From the Skeletal flame-touched-leaf-robbed, (Ironically an Ash) To the straight, strong Apple Heavy with ripening fruit But today, I've heard She's nesting in a Farther tree I approach the Tree, which is Packed with pomegranates Tightly packed with seeds Packed tightly with Staining red juice Under rinds That have let nothing in And look like my sunburnt skin The tree's Grown out of the comfortable Bush-like State Of its surrounding brethren. It is now A lean, leaning link Between earth and air But supported By Passion Flower tendrils. I clutch an offering Of lumpy, brown potatoes From my own Meager garden, Sundry berries I caught in friendly tosses And colorful rocks, which have been thrown my way The python Slithers softly Starting slothlike, but soon swiftly Around the arching braches Shifting her camouflage Against the tree's Green and brown As she raises her hiss Out of the rustling of leaves. As she swims About the branches I recognize Her markings are Made to blend with any tree But, unchameleonlike, Possess a phosphorescent nature To stand out from any As well As leaves, then flowers, then fruits drop s po rad ica lly From the branches And soon branches themselves Fall at my feet. Then, She rubs her dry scales Against the trunk Releasing Freshly sweet Amorphous sap Which soon Forgets how thick it is and flows. We tempt one another. As she twists down The tree Leaf-filtered light Swirls around her eyes which Look down At me like Charmingly miniature Black holes - They suck out The gleam in my eyes (But just enough For it to float before me So I can see it.) I find She's wrapped around me Completely My hands blessedly forced open My offerings lending her strength (Even the stones) As she constricts me Into myself. I cannot scream. Her tongue Hammers gently All over my head. Her tail is 'round the tree, A firm link. A sudden bite. A staining red juice (Not blood, Which leaves you the worse for its leaving) Sprays forth Watering her tree Filling each cell of each pomegranate Turning not dry blood brown But giving each chamber Its own hue The Tree's Trunk Grows strong as the Apple's Strong enough to support It's tendrils. She's still around me As I return to my Garden of Sustenance But after too many hours Of forcing my arms out To till the concrete-like soil She wanders away Her skin now yellowed-white Like aged newspaper. With one backward glance She slurps out a colorful Piece of my mind To entertain her On her way. I'm still bound, though, By her shed skin Green and brown as ever. Is it a chain? Or an adornment? An oversized scarf? A reminder that even now She's selecting a further Tree to tempt me to? One day, I say, She will roost in my crops! That is 'til the day I roost in her trees.
To the top of this page