Self-Portrait as Resurrection Fern
we wonder / what saved us? what for?
—H.D.
When I came to myself again,
I thought yes, this time, yes,
and stretched on the moss
in the forest I’d known for seven
adolescences. Lichens, leaves,
and limbs glistened beneath me,
and I no longer resembled
a cluster of dust, something swept
from a far desert. In the thick of it,
there was no difference between
dormancy and death, no way out
til I found what I needed. Call it
nourishment, or care—the feeling
of being looked after. It is here,
despite, or because of, so much loss.
Lifeblood
is a drop of atmosphere,
small as a spore, colossal
as the ancient oak I clutch—
reaching for immortality,
finding it in the rain.
Slime Mold Exceptionalism
After Lucy Jones’s essay “Creatures that Don’t Conform”
The post Taxonomy Can’t Classify My Fruiting Body appeared first on Electric Literature.
