Friday, January 22, 2016

the crack of my bones in the morning like
the snap of a twig, underbrush, dry leaves crumbling and giving way 
to deep moat footprints, no,

there is something inside of me that needs 
the woods, young and feral, crouching with barefeet.
the way my nails were more dirt than not dirt (very un-lady like), the way grass tasted
still wet from the earth, the neighborhood women staring at my 
tangled wheat hair, (what, were you
raised by wolves?

curling under the snow or 
panting with breath, magnets in the blood that pull to the den. 
on the day of my Communion, i ran into the back field still
strapped into a dress, they found me two hours later 
half-way up an Oak (i swear, you're an animal, Rebecca)
a selkie called to the moor, 
sometimes, i just need to see 
my moon again.

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