Feral.
The sound that rips
from my body
is only found in the wild.
Leave
me
alone.
Let me sink into cedarwood,
into the smoke of fires,
into the crash of waves,
into the bones of myself.
Let me be
animal,
of this earth
nothing more,
except the exact spot
where stars hit
again
and again
leaving craters to this day
and fossils
like my memories.
Let me wonder
what touch feels like,
or sound, making
words that convey abstracts
that keep us from each other.
Let me be wind,
black loam,
rotten leaves,
or the superhighway
that runs from mushroom to mushroom.
Let me be enough,
old,
cave-like
and not care
where I fit
or don’t fit like the ivy
that takes down the stone
until sand
slips through my fingers
and sprinkles
across this page
of seeing myself
for the first time.
Lea Goode-Harris
February 14, 2021