Leave me to the forest. 

 

That my hair may be braided with twigs,

a victor's laurel atop the redwood's crown. 

That those featherless babes

feel my softness and their mother’s devotion first. 

 

The curve of my rib a burrow, 

shielding snakes and mice alike. 

Neither more cunning 

nor more timid 

than the heart that once denned 

beneath those ivory beams. 

 

My palms open to the sky, 

luminous mushrooms blooming 

around the pillars of my fingers,

hands forever full.

 

That a moth may flock

to my peeling skin

and sip the red nectar from blue veins.

Her wings caressing my cheek, 

light and tender as moonlight.

 

My flesh to feed the wolves, 

no less kind than life has been. 

The snuffle of their breath against grey skin

soft as slow-falling snow.

Their teeth will rend 

scars and sun-kissed freckles alike. 

 

Leave me to the forest

 

That the rain may run rivers through me, 

that it may pool in the hollows of my eyes, 

reflecting the inky swirl of night

And the endless procession of stars

 

That my bones sink down 

and down

and down 

to the burning centre. 

Meeting the sweet marrow of the earth

and melting before rising 

and cooling again.

 

The glittering crushed quartz 

splitting topsoil like teeth 

through crimson gums. 

 

Blanketed in moss,

resonant with the sun's slow waltz once again

 

I will not feel the chilled whispering winds,

or suffer the silence of falling snow. 

Nor will I bask in the sun's warm embrace,

or float in the symphony of birds.

 

A voice forever silent. 

Eyes forever closed. 

 

Leave me to the forest —

and I will always be.