Mel DiGiacomo
By
Olivia Vande Woude
It Becomes What It Becomes
Serpents of silver
Cling to her neck
In succession
From smallest to largest.
At the begging of her chest,
Lies a pendant
Blue-green piece,
Space for dancing dreams.
Never sedentary
Light attempts to rest
spindly fingers on the geode.
Other chains
go unnoticed into
nude and vulnerable oceans
Weathered flaps of skin,
An old sail.
Veins and wrinkles
well acquainted with the Sun
roll unabashedly
Withering into the
Tea soaked canvas.
Dependent upper lip perches
on its corresponding lower ensemble
Of saffron pigments—
Chapped and cracked
A layer of dead skin
Yet to exfoliate.
White spinnaker hairs
Cut above ears
Cavernous sounds, erupting from the interior.
Laughter, escaping without a trace.
Mud dipped toes cling
happily to the ground
No restraint nor imprisonment
It becomes what it becomes.
Metal Tufted
Twin fawns were birthed last
week on Route 1A after
the mother succumbed
to gashes and scratches,
contusions and gashed resolutions,
consequences of escaping the forest
north of Winkumpaugh Road.
At 3 PM the doe emerged,
metal tufts
with a wounded breast
to bid farewell to her fawns,
rust colored and orphaned.
Motorists enrobed the newborns,
placed them in bassinets of ferns,
helped them suckle
from neighbors’ borrowed pacifiers.
Wobbling into woods,
she’d ensured their safety
retreating to beds of bloodroot.
She’d gone too far
and became too far gone
She got to live
before the living stopped.