Poet Wrestling with the Fruit

by ROSEBUD BEN-ONI

 
 

Blessed be the ultra-luxe war

            -bucks & blessed blood

                        riding shotgun, a woman's

 

                                                            place is thoracic

                                                            accident & front row

                                                            blood on the highway.

 

                                                                        Blessed halo of hit-&-run, for he

 

                                    would love me most for my labors,     

                        for my sisters rallying

 

on soft & squealing

forest floor. Blessed be he who climbs

& reaches the last hatching in debris,

for our kind builds no nest

& there is no returning.

 

Blessed be his hands, where blessed bees

            forget every flower

                        among dusty-pollen trees,

                                    where once we were sharp

                                                & unsuspecting.

 

Blessed be the ground

            in which leaf-cutters lose

                        their wings

                                    to farm fungi :: wage wars :: take

                                                captives. Blessed the no name

 

           

            I will not partake in swallowing

                        her whole

                                    when all other priorities            

                                                are rescinded. Blessed be

 

                        what replaces my chances

                                    with sympathies.

 

            Blessed nature of nothing, most absolute instinct.

                        & blessed he who believes he can shed me

 

                                                from his wings.

                       

                                                            Blessed this fool who flies into

 

                                                                                                            red slit as kismet,

                                                                       

                                                                        when I am pilot

                                                                                    & hurl him from the cockpit.

                                                                                     

Blessed be the ground he hits.

 

Blessed the splat & shattering.

 

Blessed the orchid that awakens without

            watering.

 

Blessed the forests that slash-and burn he

            who would set fires.

 

Blessed the women who will not bend under

            blessed machine we called mother

                        that rendered us expendable—

 

            back away from her you blessed bitch,

 

                        blessed

                                    alien mother queen.

                       

                                                & blessed ripley & blessed

                                                            exoskeleton power loader

                                                                        and class 2 ratings.

 

                                                            Blessed be the body blown out

                                                                        though air lock & deep space

                                                                                    cavity.

 

                                    & blessed be the meek who

 

                                                                        bless gently

 

                        with a chainsaw—

 

                                    bless straight through

                                                whimpering loom

                                                            & plastic-flower fleshings.