Berries

I heard when she followed

some path decided on

into the woods

berries jumped down her mouth

as frogs into a puddle

and they rolled down her little throat

into her wavy stomach.

These ripe red things

swished around her concave middle

in tornado spins. As she walked,

having decided on the movement, the entered

berries became barriers in her vine veins

and then grew in bundles wherever they happened to latch.

I heard she sat in the middle of bushes and tree stumps

slowly watching her knees

transform from bone to stem.

I heard she found it was easier to sway

and grow back this way.

She decided early the contradictory weather

was reason enough to walk,

but she did not realize her body

would have to become the decision.

Her arms leaves. Her eyes pollen.

Her stomach a clearing

surrounded in wood.

She became.

As a collection of bushes

she could die in the winter

and come back in the spring,

she could flourish in the summer

and be eaten,

she could provide nourishment in early fall.

She could change her colors naturally,

at ease with the yearly death

that made her beautiful.

And most importantly, when it did frost

and when it did snow

she could be dormant with the knowledge

she would grow back in Spring.

I don’t know where she entered,

what path, what kind of berries animate

themselves enough to jump off stems

and into a child’s throat.

Maybe she ate them; picked them

with curious hands and put them on her innocent tongue.

But I heard they came alive, plunged themselves into her mouth.

I heard they came alive. I heard she

was happy with the result,

proud to have allowed a little girl’s body

to be taken by roots

and swallowed by the ground.

Her knew self could sway in the contradictory wind

and she preferred the ability to bend.