Out of the Woods
I trip up the slope behind
the swing set. I backflip off
the waterfall. I curl under
a teacher's desk as adults
whisper in the hall. I burn
leeches off my shin, laughing.
Mother tosses my dress in
a trashcan, but red peeks
out. Mutts nose the ridgeline.
I read at recess, move into
town. Pockets are jammy with
berries from my secret thicket.
Trees are tongues, fingers.
My woods, a periwinkle in its
shell. In some dreams, he's
a step behind, gripping my
neck. In others, I whip about
and he's a fawn or barn owl
I'd spooked after stepping on
a nail. Worst is paralysis
as he balloons above. And
what of my lost woods? Or
pathless ones I now pace?
When will I crest the hill,
skirt hissing with leaves?
