Ecosexual, Abscission & Trapping Al-Mi'raj by Ariel Bartlett
The ground’s unhallowed calls rose
in husky tones
from moonlit reeds
and rasping soil.
Its vaporous breath
with sordid invitations:
a smudged translation
of its repeated cries.
claim the widowed orchard.
My hands obeyed
the trochaic chant,
my window open,
water vines, and
my defiant body
My house held its breath as I
traversed the backyard, dragging
my feet through weeds and sludge
and parting the ferns that led
to the apple grove.
Beware the stiff spines of apple trees
and their illusion of poise.
Beware their lucid sway
and try-hard resemblance
to a balladeer’s mosh pit.
The ground pulled me to its calloused body,
and the violence of violets ensnared me.
I tore the flowers
from their grassy sockets;
the dirt began to divide.
I fell as compliantly as gravel
into the earthy territory
where life and death
The widow wedded me to its soil,
lulling the orphan
into maternal containment.
Beware nature’s mawkish poetry
when, in nine months, wildflowers
will burst from this swollen land.
After a personal colour analysis,
I was told my hazel eyes meant
I was an
Now, every time I blink,
I feel the moribund foliage
of a deciduous forest.
I’m peering out from
the fog and ligneous residents
gripping the fabric of myth to me
like silk from a thousand discarded
You came here, searching
for the scintillant spider webs
from invisible spinnerets
and enshrined four students
on the fiftieth anniversary
of the Halloween massacre.
(Torchlight probed lichen and ferns,
but their cobwebbed bodies remained
You’re trapped in my eyes,
fighting your way through
thorny shrubs and magnolia.
Be careful, my dear.
If sweet potato is the ground’s way of saying, ‘Thank you,’
my boots must’ve trodden too hard.
Adding salt to water and calling it soup was my only response
to that taciturn vegetable patch —
until my jaundiced hands were barely distinguishable from the brass
latch of my shed door.
The expanse inhaled both me and the rectangle of oak.
I felt my way along the wall
to the clenched metallic jaws that hung from hooks like an ad
for chin augmentation.
I relieved the traps of their amputated pirates
and dragged them behind me
to the fruitless orgy of weeds and flowers
just beyond my backyard.
The only animals on this island exist in poems
about yellow rabbits that robbed
an Adult Warehouse. Nevertheless, the lethal orthodontics
poised amongst the crown vetch and petty spurge
made the prospect of proteinous stew
seem almost believable.
Poetry by Ariel Bartlett, find Ariel on Instagram.