On Wittgenstein's "Beetle in a Box"

And how are we feeling today?
taut, white linen snaps,
drifts upon me
like the hiss of cicadas
How can I describe the beetle I own
when it is in the covered box?
best to ignore the question
Crysanthemums remind me of funerals.
My answer makes her bristle.
I did not intend to grow thistles.
Whisked open curtains release a shower of glitter
Sunlight makes a mirror of the window
 
white dandruff flakes,
pollen from a shaven scalp
peeking out of a gaudy flowery turban,
cleft ridges on a moist, transparent brow,
furrows row over row
vine-like eyebrow-penciled archways
covering hollow orbits
illuminated by phosphorescent blue irises
chasms flank the bridge of my nose
indigo shadows smile beneath my eyes
hollow cheeks stained with rose blush
lips soft as lilies
 
Weary sunlight
awaits the scent of peonies on a starry night
when I can release my beetle into the Garden.

© Myrna Rootham