She is
half woman
half rainforest.
Her cathedral of trees, a canopy
of woven fingertips
as if
in thought
and they open to
kiss the shrouded atmosphere.
Sprawling tangle of gnarled knuckles
she is unsure where
she begins
or ends.
Moss clothes her delicate sturdy torso
Ferns weep with a kind of sadness
salty pools fill with tears.
Her volcanic breasts sustain life
created by
cleaved glaciers
long ago.
A brushstroke of crimson,
an epiphyte flower
tucked gently behind her ear.
She blushes and
breathes deeply
and wants to know,
can you hear her heartbeat?






Jennifer Fliss is a New York raised, Wisconsin and California schooled, Seattle based writer. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming with Brain Child, Zelle (Runner’s World), Prime Number, Foliate Oak, Siren Magazine, Silver Birch Press, Blotterature, Praxis, The Belltown Messenger, Daily Mom, Behind the Book, BookerMarks, and The Well Read Fish. For more information visit www.jenniferflisscreative.com.