Something is walking in the woods that I cannot see. I follow the trail of pink leaves. Gnats swarm a statue of St. Francis of Assisi knowing he will cause them no harm. In the circle, I find a wooden well, for wishes or curses, like the core of any renaissance. To be born again. To navigate the labyrinth. If time is a construct, can it be brought to its knees by the slightest drop in temperature, grass sprouting beneath ice? You are asleep in a room far from here, & cannot save me from the shadows I hear. Footfall or slither, the sound is the same. Tell me your secret name. Gravel stained with pink from bleeding trees. New ghosts follow my scent like crow wings.
—
Beth Gordon is a poet, mother and grandmother currently living in Asheville, NC. Her poems have been nominated for Best of the Net, Pushcart and the Orison Anthology. She is the author of two chapbooks: Morning Walk with Dead Possum, Breakfast and Parallel Universe (Animal Heart Press) and Particularly Dangerous Situation (Clare Songbird Publishing). She is Managing Editor of Feral, Assistant Editor of Animal Heart Press and Poetry Editor of Gone Lawn.
Artwork by:
Patrick Hendry
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