Gut Flora
Selena Spier

Stars in their bedsheets struggle to breathe.
My dreams have been keeping me awake.
Down the stairs and through the hall
I creep; as my countrymen sleep
I’ll feast, like a king, on apricot jam
and soft cold bread full of air.
But as I stand before the fridge

an uninvited grief steals in, descends
to the crawlspace beneath my skin
and unfolds, pressing hard against
my guts. They writhe beneath
its deadweight, pink and shining.
I feel this because I am alive.
I am. I am. I am. I am.

This grief made a kingdom of me:
broad fields flecked with asphodel.
She refuses to let me leave; I try
but she clings onto my pant-leg, and cries,
and threatens to pull out all her teeth
and plant them in the earth
to be harvested in autumn with the corn.
`
In the depths of my body she moves.
Sea-foam blossoms on the cheese.
Something is growing in there, expanding;
my skin soaked with grease, hanging in folds.
And then, at once, the sadness leaves
with a soft hissing sound as it goes, and once
again I find myself alone.

Alone in the warm-milk moonlight.
Alone in my castle with its ivory halls.
The night air seeps in through the windowscreen,
carrying crickets, rustling leaves,
distant sounds of the highway, and I
feast, like a king, on apricot jam
and soft cold bread full of air.

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