Henri had ‘no other teacher
but nature.’ I recalled that factoid
from an art history class while peaking
thick with narcotics in the clinic bed
then they scotch-taped me to the ceiling
in his poster-sized jungle print.
The safe place for banished PYTs
ripe with uglifruit, there I learned
a woman leaves The Virgin Forest
much the same way she came in.
I laid across the forest’s plush green
canvas. My own foliage, shorn
the night before. Smooth palm leaves
split open in jungle book narrative
where the shadow doctor conflicted
beneath uterine sun —
part man part beast.
Then the thunder.
And it was broken asunder.
And then it was over.
Blood orange fruition
of the smallest, wild hope
crawled out of me for five days
in broken shells and poked yolk.