In a Parallel Universe, Lafenwa is Still Home

nobody told us about the drums. these drums.
that when we strike them deafening enough,
we become a sphinx wriggling into ourselves like mysteries.
not bugs. not a web jam strong enough to thwart
this movement. see, a contact. the body morphs
into a firefly shattering through the woodland
like an asteroid. a beating, dum dum. the body
clutches its oil till it bubbles down the feet
like plosives, dodging the strong air trapped
in the alveolar. the sphinx still moves around
with prayers. frosts of stardust flash across,
and there is an answering. the drum is silent, promise.
the sphinx is undead, promise. the forest is alive,
promise. the forest is Lafenwa. Lafenwa is home.
home is the breath we move with, that reminds us
that every beating is worth another puff of breath;
that this sphinx is only a wound, but we have been
children of the forest long enough to watch wounds
become scars. see, a wading. believe your covets so much
and they become music. a sonorous hit fluting itself
behind, that unless the apocalypse comes too early,
why else shall you bury home? the very essence of your
becoming. curtains close.