from, Haunted Forest

IV. A Wild Sweet Rippling

A cautionary miss, cautionary
tale, all dressed up &
smelling of strangers, in the pines, in
the pines. He fondled her
anklebones, mistook her
hair entirely & caught, mid-
swarm, her shuttered face

He crowned her, poppies & pepper-
berry. Taught her to sleep
under trees, skirts spread, to trap
mythical beasts. Waiting
for anything is its own kind
of fever. Or undoing. Your slow
road to ruin.

This entry was posted in poetry.

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