My Dearest of Selves, Tire of Thine Eyes & People in the Morning,

Death is here, and you plant
              tree pods for no    greenness in

a keening beach bleached    white. Micro
            biologists grow a third eye

on a frog’s side, trace the light’ning’s
soup   watch molecules choose their living beast

(proposed
              face & metronome’d microbes
vibrate    into vibrant    matter)

I’m sitting in on
              yet another panel on    planning for micro

aggression, which is my labia laying
him into the WORD & the WORLD:

panelist explaining how two crackers feed
          the multitudes, how I AM

the multitude lurching into boar bodies, how
          micro means drag-ate-a-carp-off-a-cliff  means
split seed

in a mason jar   sprouting accident: when
          will your diagnosis mean

I finally get to sprout
a third eye

(green
              white, & graveled?)

I hear your death song & why
do I slip into it like a good   little fellow

folds glowing the darkest note
              I refuse to pry open—-

R


 

C.R. Grimmer is a poet and academic who lives in Seattle, WA. She did her MFA and MA in Portland, OR, and her poems have appeared a few places, including The Portland Review, Otis Nebula, and The Gold Man Review. She is a recipient of the 2016 Harlan Hahn Disability Studies Fellowship for her work on Lyme Disease and poetry.

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