TWO POEMS
Afternoon in the Woods
What I love about the woodsis that you can screamand no one will come. Some dayssound’s the only way pain can fleethe body. I wish Iof wildflowers, but I’m all thorn. Years ago,my father came home alone from a bike ride,his face a broken window strangledby vines. He held out his arms and I raninto forest, headed for the treehollowI’d made a home of. At the hospital,my mother’s body plum-colored, her faceall stitches and bruise. My fatherthumbing the blood on her brow. How do we beareven the tenderest touch, knowingwhat we know? Wind, rustling leaves,pollution of contrails threading through clouds.Fading footsteps. Mangled bicycles. Flutterof wings, then birdcall. I lark. I longing. I graspfistfuls of grass, pull apart pine needleslike wishbones. No name for the scentof these fallen leaves, hot under the sun.And how dare my body desireanother body, heat, a hand in mine. This townof black ice, a carcass of tree, fracturedarms and nosebleeds. Once, I let tears falland someone hovered over me, her lipson my cheek, blurred with my salt.I was wanted, then—touchedlike a just-plucked plum. Now, I clutchhandfuls of dirt, and a thorn pricks my finger,blood such a striking color.
