the beetles and the hounds

November 13, 2020

I wrote this poem (well, certainly a poem, but more prose-leaning) at around midnight last night. The first line sat in my head for a long while, and then within 20 minutes of actual writing, it became a fairly long (for me) poem about sexual trauma and feeling disconnected from my body. I’m feeling more like a conduit lately in terms of my creativity. More and more poetry occurs in my mind as naturally as inner dialogue, and I have been loving the outcome, rather than immediately rejecting it as I have during the more beginner stage of my poetic process. Same with music, but that’s always been a bit harder for me.

The Beetles and the Hounds
by Meeeeee!!!!

The dank elixir which once dribbled from her like lava flow has dulled to a crust in the shape of beetles between her thighs. Now her hands are hounds, grim and vigilant.
Each night the evening fog softly lifts the window and invites the beetles to trickle down the ledge and bury themselves in the ferns below.
In their sleep the hounds are pups. They do not anticipate calamity, but lie vulnerable on either side of her like enchanted gargoyles.
When the most alert hound sighs, relieving himself of any residual caution, the beetles pulse towards the fog and bury themselves in its fathoms.
Well before twilight the beetles re-emerge and return to their post like tiny emerald soldiers, never once disturbing her or the hounds.
When she rests, the beetles click and gestate. And when she wakes, though the hounds lay peacefully beside her, she carries a vague sense of invasion.

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