Taking a fancy to the woods I marry if for no other reason than I liked his place. Call me moonchild, triggerfish, dreamer, or a kettle hole dolly with a big mama style. From Bearing East to Quadrant Hill I roam back paths, cutting through windfall and blueberry undergrowth, a tribe to myself, a saltwater river with a womb full of nest eggs and a mate at sea. Nights I lie naked telling jokes to myself and dream other woods, other fires -- it's all there in genetic confusion, blood lust and Donny boys dancing. the harp and the pipe and bats in the dark until the sun peeps into this deciduous dizziness. The rite of bread-making begins at first light and my grandma taught me how to fill a house with the smell of yeast and wheat taking form under fire. The last of the piping plovers call this island home, and my babies too will ripen here and dream themselves forth in a furrow of their own time, a cradle or pine needle nest: this parish of tail walkers and ogle-eyed owls.
1 Response to Wildwood Wife