Poetry by Elizabeth Fong
Infestation
Earlier that day, someone had asked her, "did you know that the
human eye can detect more shades of green than any other color?"
No, she did not know this, but it makes sense. Consider the color
green: Clean top notes; uncut grass, algae covered ponds- woodsy,
wholesome. Delve further into the color to find its turbid hues:
Murky lake water, mold on last month's loaf of bread, bruised
knees. On its deepest level, green can be quite grotesque- chunks of
vomit caught in between teeth or an infected sore. My skin will turn
green after I die, she muses. She is in the shower. The shower tiles
are green. She lets the scalding water cascade down her back,
leaving her skin pink with irritation.
She has a forest growing inside of her, vegetation and undergrowth
thrive beneath her skin; worms bury themselves under the roots of
the trees grounded in her hips. Bugs crawl around her ribs and up
her spine to the treetops behind her eyes. They sleep there. She sees
the green so vividly it consumes her; she sees the green so clearly
she devours it whole. The green makes her belly hurt. The green
makes her belly burst, and from her comes the moss that climbs the
trees, the vines that cover the forest floor, and the thicket that
suffocates the flowers.
Earlier that day, someone had asked her, "did you know that the
human eye can detect more shades of green than any other color?"
No, she did not know this, but it makes sense. Consider the color
green: Clean top notes; uncut grass, algae covered ponds- woodsy,
wholesome. Delve further into the color to find its turbid hues:
Murky lake water, mold on last month's loaf of bread, bruised
knees. On its deepest level, green can be quite grotesque- chunks of
vomit caught in between teeth or an infected sore. My skin will turn
green after I die, she muses. She is in the shower. The shower tiles
are green. She lets the scalding water cascade down her back,
leaving her skin pink with irritation.
She has a forest growing inside of her, vegetation and undergrowth
thrive beneath her skin; worms bury themselves under the roots of
the trees grounded in her hips. Bugs crawl around her ribs and up
her spine to the treetops behind her eyes. They sleep there. She sees
the green so vividly it consumes her; she sees the green so clearly
she devours it whole. The green makes her belly hurt. The green
makes her belly burst, and from her comes the moss that climbs the
trees, the vines that cover the forest floor, and the thicket that
suffocates the flowers.
|
Elizabeth Fong is a college student in Minnesota. Her work can be found in Plain China, Quiver, and Sidereal Magazine.
|
