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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4124 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Forest, Baby Blue Lauriette (Laurie Byro) Every sorceress is a pragmatist at heart -- Louise Gluck While I busied myself, sweeping up nettles on the forest floor, hanging pinecones (gutted and lit with fireflies) a nemesis (you know the one) turned you into a reindeer. I could say, it doesn’t matter. I could urge you on, thigh muscles still sore from the last time you exposed me to your buckish nature. You could easily carry my weight through a sentinel of trees. My hair rolling silver down my breast while we part rivers, make our own waterfalls. Instead, you look at me with mournful eyes, beg retribution. An army of deer pause for you to join them. The forest floor moves, trips us up with its mossy carpeting. I wonder should I continue? I need to string cranberries, throw moths into the air like confetti. I need to coax an egret to give up its egg for our supper. The forest waits, birds stop their evening-song to listen. The pine forest is an ocean to row against. It’s late, vagabonds will look for a place to sleep below canopies of hemlocks. I strike a match on one of your antlers, start a fire for us to sit around and tell tales. My lovers are ghosts who will not leave nor follow. See how they watch us, silently condemning us with dead eyes. There is only one star out tonight and we are falling. |
