CAMPING IN THE TARPITS

There is an acid that leaks out of me,
dissolves fiefs under my keeping.
I hold on, tell myself I am the same person
as all queens that have granted self,
braided all the hair in the kingdom,
or belched at the royal dinner. 
Still I hold big wing-dings for heads of state. 
I won’t bore you with the number of gravies
or sirs willing to spoon them.

By the time my vest-plate came off,
you never noticed my playful feet,
or that I had three states to run,
fussy dictators to please,
spice tours to juggle, and my dear
dependents to fend for.
As your queen I know I was the best
oven-mitt you ever had.
Small wonder I became quite burnt.
Still you did not think how it felt
to be introduced as a crouton,
chigger bug, or the hard thing
found in your cereal with no allusions
to some sort of prize. 

Think back to when I was a Moth Girl
with hypnotic blue spots on hind wings
lugging an absent father and a bulky pail of water
up the hill.  You admired my iridescent dust,
springy antennae.  I never sang
as I focused on not spilling,
thus I was able to tow more water
than my share all those years
and rise to queenly status. 

When I did finally take a tumble,
the deluge that followed brought
a wide variety of fauna that I feast on daily. 
I presume I will continue to eat squishy 
luminescent lily pads without need
of a can of tuna to supplement.
Rich dense life continues to sprout
from this watering, as the silt
of our dead lushly feeds.

The meaning of this end sluiced,
washed to the point of tsunami,
yet floods like these have the good force
to push one out into new fields. 
A grand providence unfolds
when one holds tight to the ride-bar,
plummets to their depths to find
an inky bottom lavished
in vintage gewgaw.  Here your mother
rows with one oar, your father sits,
a cinder on the couch.

I may never explain to others
how I became a turnstile
for an idea that constantly ripped
my head off  till comprehended,
nor how I withstood the pelting
of teensy, but by sheer volume,
killer trail mix. 
This, as a sadness crowned
a recurrent pearlescent vision
of all the unborn slipping
ever deeper into the land
of No, in the province
of Never.