The dark still nurses its secret.
But the change in the bat is inevitable even in night skies.
If she’s alive now, then she was dead before.
Staying put bestowing to habit,
Though, like a stone, unaffected.

That wasn’t it. The bat slept.
Masked upon black mildew,
As angels wept over dead ice.
Frozen locked are her cheeks of basalt.

That wasn’t it. The bat fought.
Emptied herself out like a fluid,
Along bird feces and crying dull natures.
Floating through the grass, past a twig.

That wasn’t it. The bat cultivated.
Lucent like glass, an arm, a leg.
Stone to air, she ascended.
A victim of introspection.

That wasn’t it. The bat bit the bird.
She gnawed and sucked,
A tug at her biology,
She needed to satisfy.

The foreign entity chilled her flesh.
A heave in her veins.
Evergreen chants of liberation now worn thin.
A conviction to her new virus.

A parsimony clung to her cells in the wake.
The bird’s exodus is not to be misconstrued.
She drank him dry.

The bat wasn’t fooled.
Printed in her bones.
The bird showed her how to make a love knot.
But never how to rid the rot.

 

[Inspired by Sylvia Plath, search for the Easter eggs.]