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.