the trumpet of the swan

the nite-vines grow where they do,
through the eye socket, jam through
the white paperback tooth:
needle through thread, that easy.

this is how my ears fail
in thatch of old man overgrowth
this is how my eyes fail
slowly: dendrites and scattered leaves.

something left for dead, long ago
blown clear into life
with the hush hush reach of vine
jingling leaves; the keys snaking in pocket.

i am not afraid
i am terrified
i am all grown up
i am a child

i listen owl-like to the great white therapist
he offers his plan with enthusiasm
brown loafers kicking and kicking
myself in the smooth crib of couch.

hear hear, i turn my head,
see his instructions, and the vines.
my fingers swell, turn red
dip dip in turpentine

the darlings come clean and i am meaty.
the lovers make simple i make spider webs.
come see me in ten years,
i shall be a great vine covered castle

made for remembering, not living.
made for the deep pocket keys,
the child's sweat flinch hand
he smooth pages of map-books.

my keepers, my God!
why can i not just. just.
would you curl your mover's fist
round the trumpet rope in my brain?

my keepers, my godless heart.
here i am, replanted after all this time.
i thought i was perfumed against rape
and crimes of the heart.

come lick me clean, lover.
i'm not supposed to ask for a savior,
having no religion to speak of.
still the heart wants what it wants

i'd like you to save me. sorry to ask.

maggie may ethridge
july 2010

*Araujia sericifera- trumpet vines