DAEMONIA CANTO 8

 

So the question is

Am I from a long line

Of mediocre bards

Or just an imaginative family

Inventing biographies of strangers

While riding the elevated train or

Fantasizing about a better life

And forgetting to get out

Of that walking dream land?

 

My name is Iris Versicolor

I have a sister named Belladonna Atropa

And the youngest are twins

Arsenica Album and Arnica Montana

We’re all Jacks of all arts

And masters of none

Singing, playing instruments and painting

Not good enough to earn money

But we have fun

 

Anyway, if you’re wondering

We are all named for poisons

Mama was an herbalist of sorts

Living in a dream world

But sometimes she was scary

And although she never poisoned us

Or anyone we knew

Wouldn’t put it past her

‘Cause some of the stuff she grew

Sure looked like the namesakes

Of me and my sisters

None of us were interested in herbs

I liked the cards

Belladonna the tea leaves and coffee grinds

And the twins understood

All those lines on the palms of hands

 

Mama had a clutch of brothers

With their own families

Yet they supported us monetarily

Although living far away

Didn’t know our Daddy

We lived by the stony creek

Making up our own language

We claimed was Greek

But we never needed anyone else

 

As the oldest

I, Iris,

Shoulda remembered Daddy

But me and my sisters

Were each a year apart

And after a roaring fight with Mama

When I was four

He left and we grew up

Like a mirror of the Brontes

Writing, reading, singing, painting

But never quite as talented as them

 

In our mid-teens, suddenly an apocalypse

Separated in the chaos

Alone, discovered my latent talent

Growing poisons

People were crazed

Dazed from the lack of electricity

No gas, no cars, no computer or TV

Nothing to do or see

Just make babies and war with former friends

People wanted to hurt people

And they discovered me

The poison grower

 

Built myself a fortress

Miss my sisters

Don’t know who’s alive or dead

No Facebook to search

Wound up on a mountaintop

With an icy creek of fresh water and

My made-for-ballet legs

Good at squatting in the

Primitive water closet

Traded some Mercury

For a small cauldron

Cooking goulash of rice, beans and wild herbs

Just ate the same food three times a day

Traded some Hemlock

For notebooks and pens

Found fishing line for the

Baritone ukulele strings

And rescued a pup

Now taller than me

For protection

I grow cayennes for chili

But also traded card readings

For children’s water pistols

Creating a weapon to shoot pepper spray

Keeping those zombies away

 

Met some good men through the years

But they’re always searching

Forming gangs

Life a never-ending pissing contest

So me, I stay with the trees

The men come and go

(Not talking about Michelangelo

How I miss TS Eliot’s poetry!)

Governments are forming

They’re all shams

Descendants of the Knights Templars

Living in bunkers with electricity

Pulling the puppet strings

Making us dance

Well, not me

I’m alone and so far FREE

 

One day a man shows up

Hair starting to silver

Says he was a private detective

BA, AKA “Before Apocalypse”

Traced me here

Handing me a letter written by my sister Belladonna

I’m happy but scared

What kind of footprint did I leave

That this man can find me

Hundreds of miles from my home?

 

He accepts a bowl of my chili

And drinks the creek water

With much appreciation

Telling me that the cities

Are unlivable now

But he can’t make a living

Working out in the country

Bella is ill and now has three children

She begs me to come and help her

But I don’t want to go

Asking him if I can pay him

To bring her and the children here

Because what is the sense of living

In a post-Apocalyptic city

With dirty water and no sewers

He counters saying he couldn’t travel with

A sick woman and three youngsters

Without a gang of men

Or his horse and wagon would be stolen

Much easier to put me on the back of his horse

And travel that way

What can I say?

I inquire about my sisters the twins

But he claims no knowledge

Mama, of course, died the year

Before the war

 

So there is only me

Iris the Elder

Leshii, the man

Says he will nap

And I can pack

Assuming I will go

With him into Hades

Like a mirrored Eurydice

Following Orpheus in the opposite direction

 

When he sleeps, I wander

Through the path I’ve worn

Over the years

Call it instant karma

Or paybacks are hell

But I always knew

Growing poisons for others

Knowing some would use them

For healing, like Foxglove for digitalis

But most to kill perceived enemies

As ammunition for guns

Quickly disappeared

But the urge to kill

Exponentially increased

And I, in order to live

Played a part

Despite my oath

NA POVREDA

DO NO HARM

Losing its importance

When my life felt threatened

 

I cannot make myself leave

But how can I stay

I walk around this safe nest

The Clash song

Should I stay or should I go

Echoes through my mind

Passing the overgrown portal

But not going anywhere, anyway soon

Always turned my back on the doorway to

Daemonia

What will I do…?

 

© 2024 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: Moon for Daemonia Canto 8