? SLAB | Sound & Literary Art Book

Issue 10

Poetry

Holly Day

Dew-Damp and Sap-Scented


He smiles as if he’s made of wood, coarse flesh
rough bark, I am unable to leave. I imagine
we’re posing for a photograph, holding hands only because
we were planted too close together.

If I turn my head, I am alone in this forest
shaking apples free from my limbs like new babies
set free. I am feverish with rattlesnake venom
from this dream that will not pass
strengthened by a wind that sucks
the sound of your breathing away from my ears.

This is my campsite now
and you are only allowed to see me through
the tiny crack between the zipper and cloth of your sealed tent flap.
When the sun goes down, we will meet just long enough
to exchange horror stories around a fire
tales of marriage believable only in the middle of the night.