Woodcutter For Mark You flick sap from your beard and I breathe in the forest from the crook of your arm. You hold me like the spruce holds a moth, your boreal mouth the offshoot of thick, honeyed air. You sleep with your lips ajar and in your breath I hear the whip of the branches as they fall, the whir of the chainsaw and your sigh, your grunt, your coaxing, your whispers bouncing off bark like a child's prayer before an operation. You sculpt her and your cuts are ribbons on the forest floor. You whimper in your sleep and your fingers reach for me, sticky with the relief of trees and rough from the ache of metal on wood.
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Erin Emily Ann Vance
