Plasma

Oh, don’t blame me for that;
it's forgotten, buried;
it had to do with love begotten,
willful lust and impudence
in the face of trust!

No, I take that back,
it was fired really
by a supple body I couldn’t resist—
a human in a cross-genomic tryst.

We acted on a curious stage,
she and I, airborne somehow
in morning mists gathered around
the ocean's roar and perfumed
roses and yellow violets,
and corn I think.

At sunrise we promised mutual respect—
lost, alas, in sunset’s passion
as our singularities crossed
in hybrid fashion.

What was born,
that terribly wrinkled plasma,
was full of emotion,
but more carnivorous plant than human.

Its tentacles were unmerciful as it
searched morning dew for prey
fostered by ocean spray; and it
was more than I could fathom.
I sickened when its tentacles
turned forbidden green, and it begged
to be planted— to be born again!

Don Coonrod has published numerous poems previously in a wide variety of journals, including alittlepoetry.com, coffeepressjournal.com, Ygdrasil, Pegasus, Prairie Poetry, Poesia, and Mid-America Poetry Review and several others.

Find more by Don Coonrod in the Author Index.

Comment on this story in the Aphelion Forum

Return to Aphelion's Index page.