Afternoon in the Woods

by Despy Boutris​

 

What I love about the woods

is that you can scream

and no one will come. Some days 

sound’s the only way pain can flee 

the body. I want to be grown

of wildflowers, but I’m all thorn. Years ago, 

my father came home alone from a bike ride, 

his face a broken window strangled

by vines. He held out his arms and I ran

into forest, headed for the tree 

I’d made a home of. At the hospital, 

my mother’s body plum-colored, her face 

all stitches and bruise. My father 

thumbing the blood on her brow. I’m so sorry.

I didn’t see you. How do we bear 

even the tenderest touch, knowing 

what we know: the potential for disaster.

Wind, rustling leaves. Fading footsteps.

Mangled bicycles. Flutter of wings, 

then birdcall. I lark. I longing. I clench 

handfuls of dirt. There’s no name for the scent

of these fallen leaves, hot under the sun.

And how dare my body want

another body, heat, a hand in mine. This town 

of black ice, half-burned trees, cracked 

lips and nosebleeds. Once, I let tears fall

and someone hovered over me, her lips 

on my cheek, mouth blurred 

with my salt. I was wanted, then—touched

like a plucked plum. Now, I clutch

handfuls of dirt, and a thorn pricks my pinky.

How easily the body breaks,

blood such a striking color.