The more I writhe to detangle my body
from the net the poachers set at the edge
of the forest, the deeper the leaves
of your vest blend in with the bark
of the tree I dangle from.
Below, a mirror reflects the sun
which makes me want to live
through your scent like summer.
I need to make like a puddle
and collect myself: Once,
I was a child. My neighbor had a pool
in her backyard. Her dad collected matchbooks
with naked women on the inside.
Sometimes I would steal them.
This has so little to do with you, except
sometimes, I can’t help myself.
And this is why I need you
to carry a knife, and why I want you
to let me fall
and break all of my earthly bones.