Often confused for meadow
or horse or button. Sometimes

confused by the veil concealing
the universe of my young

self so a future can grow up
to destroy it: the volva

another name for ruins.
Some call it a cycle of foresight

or historic recurrence (though
the organed dome

looks like foreskin to me).
I call it my life

insurance nightmare from
Hell. Beneficiaries: offspring.

Offspring: spores produced
in gills and tubes and pleats––

But who should we write the check for?
Between the paper-

thin ribs, check up the long stalk, past
my annulus. Microscope it.

Count chromosomes. Do some
arithmetic. Golden spindle

fibers pulling sister
chromatids towards the star-

shaped asters. Cleavage. Meiotic
split. You know this!

Made the mistake of biting
up my skirt. I tell you what

follows––the amatoxin
absorbs into a stream

of blood, halting transcription.
Imagine, forgetting the language

of body. Vomiting,
cramps, convulsions follow.

Before death, delirium.
(I believe, I believe)

Finally, in that great clearing,
the man with wings

shielding his body
like closed parentheses.