Mid-Wife Night Mutation

image curtesy of the MET Museum

By Larissa Larson

He told me to close up
the windows, so I do. Not

wanting it to be this simple
always: preparation of night.

You must understand having
the window open

especially in summer, soaked
in a stale smell of wheat

sweat, grass blades moon
dewed, deep throats

pulsate amphibiotic
ambience, sweet insect shells

shutter sleek symphonies –
this vital vibration

of life, of musty
leaves laugh like it came

from my lungs, rabbit
feet bring rain, so skin

sink further into
these linen sheets. Now

I’ve lost myself
in these silly thoughts

of old wives’ tales
that say: on this day,

at this mid-night,
in this moon phase,

this – yes – this
will happen.

What would happen if I left
the window open

all night? I don’t think
about someone coming

in as much as me
getting out, furious

beat between
breasts: I am a thing to be

contained. I know I am
more, brute

maybe, but
scheme to leave

window open, width
of my fine

silver hair. Smell-
seep soft earth

until arousal
where my body,

morning curves,
like a great garter

snake, nobody
sees, sheds in

thigh high
daffodils.

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