Wildwood

Silent, still,

at trembling,

full draw—

I find you, sweet fawn—

you are tucked,

alone,

in the brambles.

Wild, bushy-tailed—aglow with ineptness—

you graze among lush, green grass:

an orphan of forest and stars.

*

I focus, using my dominant eye,

the weight of the bow on my finger: like wind.

Oh lamb,

the horror I am—

are you convinced I have come

to harm you?

*

Our kismets connect here,

though I fear I have painted the scene

I would skin you

and carve out

your marrow.

I am not a monster, my dove—

only a wandering ghost:

without you,

I am made phantom of all

I could be.

*

I know not where the trees may end anymore,

dear thing—

I am root-wish,

and leaf-love,

and branches—all arrows—

that ever-reach

and arc

for you—

your eidolon has become

my wildwood.

Oh, and when the sweet,

soft junipers sigh,

I sense you—

do you heed

my heartbeats

in secret?

Or do you quicken, my rabbit,

and scamper?

*

Wildwood, wildwood,

I dread in my core

I’ve been searching so long—

I’ve become

the steel of

my crossbow.

*

I nock and

I aim, and lo—

I emerge, tame (in these)

thickets of

tangles and panic.

But in my starred-eyes

you only see glints of my

wild,

starved teeth,

and vanish.