WEATHERING
The sun I honor pirouettes in the sky,
sidesteps clouds, and I watch
through the redwoods, reverent
and dizzy. How we become not treeshade
but sunrays, shining through dust particles
and the ashes of memory. Can follow,
give without bounds—
I search for feeling in the forest
(haven’t felt anything since he pushed me
down, smothered me
with his half-naked mass
and whiskey breath), step from shade
into warm light, fist the sliceblades
tucked into my pocket, pleading
move-on-move-on-move-on. Then, crossing
the path, sunbeams infuse my arms,
their gold-glimmer sheltering red wrists.
Yes, I still savor the rust of blood.
Beauty is coal blackness, mourning
marigolds, nightshades sprouting
from my ankles. That bright gleam
in the distance draws me near—
that tiny wildflower girl haunting
my dreams, the one with yellow hair
and thorny knees and something else
familiar. I search the sky, waiting
and waiting and waited for, and fight
twirls toward me at morning’s first light—
gives me two choices: to follow after
or to freeze in the dark.
