Poem for the Woods
       

Not as I would dream them now, not with growls
and twig snaps, not with dark birds and thorned vines

I've invented (keening blackwing, violencia). Not late-dayblood-
sun-dappled, not refuge of men equipped

with knives and lust, not a mouth into which you might
venture and not return, no, nothing like that.

This is a poem for the woods as I knew them,
shaded and cool behind the Novaks' house.

They seemed endless, but there was a shortcut
to Fairblue Swim Club. They held no growls,

no spikes. Only squirrels skittering, plunking acorns
down the canopy. We'd been warned of poison ivy,

but never found it. We'd been warned of rotten limbs,
but none fell. One muddy, sun-laced afternoon, we took salt

from the pantry and ventured out to where the rocks
teemed with slugs. I'd like to say our cruelty

had to do with power—human girls versus torpidity—
but really it was our curiosity, pure and unnuanced.

We wanted to see mineral against membrane.
We wanted to see something living melt. If I could,

I'd find my younger self in those woods and stop her.
I'd say, Someday you'll carry your cruelties with you

and you'll never be able to set them down. Keep walking now.
Keep pretending you know of nothing but kindness.

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Copyright © 2019 Catherine Pierce All rights reserved
from Copper Nickel
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission