Allow me just this:
your hand
my hand
separate.



1.
I fell into a deep forest. My femur
put forth roots. I did not say: oh Lord,
take me from here
like Rebekah, this is another
barrenness.

My mouth remained resolutely
closed. The moss
grew over me,
in me.

Oh Lord, I am scared.


2.
Mother is reading, brows
at half mast. In the kitchen,
Father organizes sardines
on crackers. Home means
this soft quietude.

Five thousand six hundred
miles away, I am watching a donkey.
It stumbles on three legs; the fourth
is loosely curled, like a child's fist.

There are wild dogs in the fields beyond,
waiting. I am a dog, waiting.


3.
The wind settles down
into the moor. The purple heather
lowers its head, then forgets.

It seems natural, as if the wind
was always there.

My neck bent,
I am lost in this.



Wandering, my hands
abandon their shape.