Mythomyopeia

Eventually every Mother has to let her
little girl go out to play and some,
like me, don't come back but,
raped into darkness, abjure daylight
preferring the gloom of closed curtains until the
pounding on the door lets me know my
Mother has found me, admits her to his
dark bargain, to my place in his bed as
I get to go out and play again, leaving her
waving goodbye with her feet in the air.

And hey! Spring begins and
men are easy at any time but
especially when they see me as a
field of flowers just begging to be
pollinated, and so willing! Well it is my
métier to be fruitful but did any of them ever wonder
why, as I wafted out with their seed, the
vase of wilted flowers bloomed again and the
black bananas in that ugly bowl became
yellow and ripe?

So many beds, so much seed to
germinate, but Spring and Summer
never last long enough do they? Too soon the
nights draw in and I am drawn, unwilling, to that
surprisingly mundane semi to take the place of my
Mother on the crusted bed, contemplating the
cracked ceiling, the cycle of the Earth, the
chance of seed taking, the
myth behind reality, the
reality behind myth.

I was the seed, the pomegranate, the
sour grenade you thought was safe, until I
showed you the pin between my
perfect teeth.