Ranatra Fusca

And I am void,
bleached bone dessicated.
Vital vitamins leach
and fade on empty sand.
My label reads,
"Do not eat."

I set my eyes to searching.
If this be full
then vessel be ocean.
Ranatra Fusca
glides across the tension
that drowns la fourmi tragique.

Plunge your fist into my belly
and try to touch the serpent.
It squirms without rest.
I spit poison breath
through anti-venom fog
to live.

Illusory control fails to fool
while white-knuckled death clings
to beaded pores pouring power
through feeble fingers
that clatter and scrape
against the cold stone turning,

and we are one.
I feel the kiss of earth against my skin
I taste the breath that mourns the moon
and weaves resurrection science
to bring her back,
I saddle the cyclone.

Ride the wave and dream
blast mountain sides to mud slides
with surgical firehoses.
Crops and soil reclaim villages
as we dance and pray together
for life.

We'll drown and mourn peasants
fastened to thatched roof cottages
with rotten mental floss
and ropes of poison fantasy.
If they'd lived
perhaps they'd notice.