Expedition on Venus

Today is a good day for poetry
It’s 11:55 a.m.
my wilted pajamas still hang
on my inert frame
my narrow fingers wander and rip
tugging at the roots
of my insecurities
and stagnant fears
as if to pull out the plugs
in the dike-walls
bracing against the ocean
of my roiling emotion

My weeping spirit turns its feathered head
towards the chirping
outside my window
inclined to flit there
among the suet and shit
of natural life cycles
among kin
repulsed by the quiver and chirp
of black plastic technology
stoic aliens of metal and glass
machines
dictating in the other room

There is a graying panther sprawling there
who should be my soothing mantle
my muse-mirror
my medium
to wild soul
instead she vise-locks around my forearm
all twenty claws extracted
and bites me fierce
yowling

In an hour they’ll pry open my birth canal
with massive steel tongs
stab my puckered pink cervix with needles
coaxing her to yield and fall open
like a green flower blooming out of season
a foreign invasion of my fruit
a metallic alien expedition on Venus
reconnaissance mission
to scout and root out hostiles
in my dying womb
the intel is inconclusive
the whisper of Weapons of Mass Destruction
may be but rumor
yet the risk lingers

Do I go to war under false pretenses
invoking Mars
coerce diplomacy

or try listening differently
as Venus speaks?

The to-do list drip insignificants
suspended in a false sense of urgency

Today is a good day for poetry.

© S. Rinderle, 2014

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