The Incredibly Old Woman

She seems quite grandmotherly, but
She has no descendants unless
You count her own flesh the substance
Of her indefinite descent.

She's the queen of growing in place,
Carrying the princess in her.
She's cloned her cells so many times
They can't recognize each other.

Every cancer, every virus
She converts to her duration.
She is whatever's left of her,
Whether dexterous or sinister.

She's her own long lost twin sister,
Her own father and mother, her
Trickster self hovering over
The cloud of selves that cover her.

She's not the Earth, not the mother
Of us, but us, our departure
At the heart of her arrival.
She's not old. She's not a woman.

She is the author of her own
Allegories and metaphors.
She doesn't have nasty habits.
Whatever fierce or feral is,

Whatever wilderness might be,
Whatever civilizations
Were, could be, she is not and is.
That's how she got so old. She eats.