Saw Palm (Florida Deep and Dark)
by Kelli Dianne Rule
Ever seen a sea of saw palm?
Eon-deep black hole dark-as-night
green, scissor wrong-side-up double-Us
WWWWWWWWWWWWWaving
at you.
Looking like a hiss would
if it could show you.
Fan hands up, spears spread, shoots silent,
wishing they could come for you.
A cottonmouth kid.
Wet red whip-flash fork and omniscient eyes,
pokes…peeps…wants for warm, wriggles in
cheesecloth skin.
Shed a sad single fishnet…
says I was here n’ there I went.
Possum pearlies gleam post-gloam.
A sprinkle of twinkle,
navy blue ink,
a universe melted and pulled
way, way down, way bosomy, way
soft to play with Saganian star-stuff lucifers
that can’t make-out a-difference a-bout a raccoon eye and Venus.
Mirror-image ornery sonuvva shore leave flings.
Arcadian mixer.
Furious mass naked dance.
At this time of night the country cools to glass.
It don’t much noise or move
so fiercely. So desperately when I tell you.
Really.
You have to feel it to see it.
And the saw sea calls: come.
Kelli Dianne Rule is a poet and author of dark fiction who claims roots in the backwoods of Florida, out east of Sarasota. You may find her work in Heavy Feather Review, 101 Words, Creepy Podcast and JMWW and in future editions of Whale Road Review, Ink in Thirds, The Avenue Journal and Graveside Press, among others. www.kellirule.com.