They were walking in the Vivian Woods, October flurry,
shoulders brushing, naming absolutely everything, from
the copper bells of the beech trees to the mould-blue lichen
scarring the jagged rocks. Sharing the world, she thought,
handing him an oak leaf with its tips torn to lace. But he was
memorizing, not giving back, pocketing the arrow-shaped
stones, shifting brain cells to make room for another slice
of Latin, he was keeping it for future use, for the time when
he wouldn’t need her guidance anymore. She stopped brushing
and bumped him good and hard, a stumble that veered into
an argument. She wanted a relationship with the crowded woods,
top branches of the tallest trees. She wanted co-ownership
of the blanched toadstools, the humpy centipedes, his fingers
where they meshed so perfectly with hers. They each shouted,
voices scurrying for the half-harvested hills, until he finally
shook off her hand and stomped his boots loud enough for deer
to tremble miles away. What else could he do but turn around
and head back towards the car, noticing nothing, not even the low-
hanging spider web whose master builder had one second’s fantasy
of a once-in-a-lifetime meal. She held her ground, and it truly
was her ground, she’d won it, give him up for it. She stood there
as he disappeared, already aware of how much she’d gained — the rustle
like her own private garden, the lace of decay turning death
into graceful art. Sweet wholeness. She could feel that spider
dangling above her right shoulder, carefully weaving itself into her
arms.
(Source: barrydempster.com)
• Poetry • Barry Dempster • link •
