Organ-Flower

Bosom-born, my skin peels back
As the sapling cracks through my sternum.
My heart-vine quivers in
The evening air. The moon has fallen
Away. It did not see my blood slither,
Or my bone crawl from that rough plant.
My wasted form lies half buried in the soil,
Shoulders pinned to one another,
Chest arced high (for maximum exposure);
My mouth whispers
The earthen tongue of roots.

Along the stem blinks a spiral of woven eyes,
Each resting in the valley that two others'
Edges carve. Dilated, they slide in their sockets,
Consuming the night, this fresh dusk. And crowning
This horrid stalk is my heart itself. The chambers,
Furling and unfurling, emit a guttural croak
Like some dark hound gasping for lethargy. Its flesh
Pulses red and violet and blue in the twilight,
Reaching skyward, guttering out to the absent moon,

"Mother, I am free! Mother, I am free!"

And with that,
The eyes close, and it falls
Flaccid upon my chest,
As some sleeping babe upon its mother.

And though I nursed and tended that organ-flower,
It will never flourish beyond my chest, for
The world denies my heart
Its own life. It cannot go free. So, it slinks back
Into my chest, muttering sullenly to
Mother.