When the martian was a child, he & his brother would chase each other
through a makeshift orchard: evergreens interspersed with apple & plum trees.
One summer, the evergreens bore the wrong fruit:
heavy sacks hung by strings: acrobatic worms crawling up intricate silk.
The bagworms arched their bodies in rhythm.
Hundreds of children within her, the mother does not leave her nest.
She was born into this and has sacrificed herself to the god of no agency.
The mother has no eyes, no mouth, no legs. There are hundreds of children
writhing inside her. She nurtures until the branches die.
Then her children surrender to wind to build their cocoons,
to one day fly in nameless memory.
The martian would camp under the trees, would seal his sleeping bag
over his head until he was left only with the sound of his own breath
& the beating of worm rain against his head.
The martian wonders if he is the moth, the mother, or the tree.
Sometimes we must hollow to survive.
David Rawson is the author of “A Jellyfish for Every Name” and “Proximity”, both available from ELJ Publications. He would like to say that when he looks at the moon he is thinking of you, but he cannot say for certain.
.8 & David Rawson are Featured Finalists of 2016’s Chapbook Contest. Read her work & our other 6 Features @ Nostrovia! Press.