Henri had ‘no other teacher

but nature.’ I recalled that factoid

from an art history class while peaking 
thick with narcotics in the clinic bed

then they scotch-taped me to the ceiling

in his poster-sized jungle print. 
The safe place for banished PYTs

ripe with uglifruit, there I learned
 
a woman leaves The Virgin Forest 
much the same way she came in.

I laid across the forest’s plush green

canvas. My own foliage, shorn
the night before. Smooth palm leaves

split open in jungle book narrative

where the shadow doctor conflicted
beneath uterine sun —

part man part beast.

Then the thunder. 
And it was broken asunder.

And then it was over.

Blood orange fruition 
of the smallest, wild hope

crawled out of me for five days

in broken shells and poked yolk.
Tammy Robacker is our Poet in Residence for June. Previously: Hymen and Summer of Boys.

Previously published in Rust + Moth, Winter 2015; and Villain Songs (ELJ Edition 2017).