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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
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
From the branches
And soon branches themselves
Fall at my feet.

She rubs her dry scales
Against the trunk
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
My hands blessedly forced open
My offerings lending her strength
(Even the stones)
As she constricts me
Into myself.
I cannot scream.
Her tongue
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
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
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.

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