Lichen scented—deadfalls’ punk
rises in rain. I am not sure how else
to be but yours. Crows name us
beneath branches, shielded
from the stalking sun.
My body rises, feral.
your hair. Undersong
of wayward fronds.
And in the forest you are choir and clergyman.
And in the forest wild roses tuck their heads.
Even Here She Listens in the Dark for Threats
In the backyard pool to be alone
my mother floats naked in the moonlight.
Later, I hear the door slip shut
She reenters the home
to sleep on the couch, this rearrangement
rattling the heirloom quilts.
This lie, this old myth,
every family photo bowing on its nail hinge.
I lay where deer lay
each night, where grass
bends like light. Warmth
gummed to the earth.
For each lustful tick, my skin
explicit. I am a feast, famine’s finish.
My blood honest, body ready
on the glade’s bruised mud.
Beloved, were we ever this wild?
Were we ever two beasts,
mated beneath the prying sun?
Let us remember those rude bodies.
I will be fur for you. I am hoof
for you. I am on all fours for you.
I wait, at the forest’s edge,
eager, out in the clearing.