The ground goes white as I walk upon it.
Teasels freeze & grass takes glitter.
My feet find moisture & turn to mud,
making me less than myself. Matter
has no application over apathy.
I have no care for who I am.
I’m merely one of many small women
securing themselves in the roots of
unknown plants & bracing, becoming
silver & ringing goosebumps & breasts
like bells to break like glass &
laugh at how fragile it is to be
without meaning anything.
We are woodland, black ice, berries,
bitter mints of grit & gut. & ugly
girls grow lamb’s quarters in the couch
grass & give broad-leaved burdock
their best human impression.
Indeterminate birds of the hedgerow
ignore them all, refusing their pleas
& cries to reveal something more
than so many brown feathers as
features or identifying marks.
Little girls let themselves steep
in run-off brooks & overflow,
softening their bodies to a state
of skeletal ecstasy & shakes.
The foxes watch & wonder if
this is prey at all – these people
pressed & bound to hedge, this
crying cinquefoil?
Stark skin knows only air & has
no need of names. It feels only
winter & blooms when full of shame.
Image via Pixabay
The Cabinet of Heed 