Corpse Flower, Luna Moth
The deep wine of it risen tall above the buried corm, its ornamental spathe furrowed thought- fully, to human warmth. O un-branched inflouresence, amorpho- phalos, misshapen swelling, with its allure of rotting flesh for the scarabs to follow, hollow, to the sun-lit trove, as though all dark were light unbidden by our parsing eye, and love itself hidden inside the word. Call it life enrapt with death’s blight, blooming briefly. ~ Emergent morning in the sweet gum triggering green, green its wings fanning translucent below the porch light—angelic, a palm of light opening. Hallowed, hatched each instar inches undercover, a spent thing climbing larval, alluvial, out of every cycle’s shelf- life, its rife unknowing, to become this end— brief birth flying, flown, thrown at midnight into beginning. Mouth-less, it appears something bidden out of the dark, out of the broadleaf, unmoving, to say something wordlessly—the word we too can neither speak nor sing.