Prodigal Summer 1.

Prodigal Summer 1. by B. Kingsolver

*Will try to do a poem per chapter 😊

I didn't know where I was going
until we got there,
each flick feverish, undecided,
the body made of bee orchids,
hair colour of wetlands,
eyes apologetic and afraid,
as if no car dicing protected hills
could prevent collision with a hen.
The hunt season is afoot here,
under toes, between stones,
every wild call is a form of martyrdom.
The males glow glorious,
beat at each other between hedgerows.
I watch spring rain matt together,
make larger teardrops
from their teardrops,
gather upon a leaf
who has a dip inside her navel
which becomes too weighted,
water collapses on the ground,
begins gathering again.
She talks of May,
of the pack,
tribes of women
driven to mountains,
feeding from communal breast,
each forgotten how to predate,
painted as tasselled and feral,
instinctive and mildly adjusted.
I wonder if she howls
into vast and busy emptiness,
where I am headed
within this escape.
Some people call it nutrition,
others a reclusive space
to wait out the season,
I probably lay
somewhere in between.