Death is here, and you plant
tree pods for no greenness in
a keening beach bleached white. Micro
biologists grow a third eye
on a frog’s side, trace the light’ning’s
soup watch molecules choose their living beast
(proposed
face & metronome’d microbes
vibrate into vibrant matter)
I’m sitting in on
yet another panel on planning for micro
aggression, which is my labia laying
him into the WORD & the WORLD:
panelist explaining how two crackers feed
the multitudes, how I AM
the multitude lurching into boar bodies, how
micro means drag-ate-a-carp-off-a-cliff means
split seed
in a mason jar sprouting accident: when
will your diagnosis mean
I finally get to sprout
a third eye
(green
white, & graveled?)
I hear your death song & why
do I slip into it like a good little fellow
folds glowing the darkest note
I refuse to pry open—-
R
C.R. Grimmer is a poet and academic who lives in Seattle, WA. She did her MFA and MA in Portland, OR, and her poems have appeared a few places, including The Portland Review, Otis Nebula, and The Gold Man Review. She is a recipient of the 2016 Harlan Hahn Disability Studies Fellowship for her work on Lyme Disease and poetry.