I have yet to spot them,
branches rubbing together, creaking
in the breeze. Somewhere in the tangle, limbs have crossed
and bark falls as powder to earth. I rest
on unleavened ground, where grass does not rise
to the occasion. On the forest floor, only weeds
have the courage to poke up
where I settle.
I was never any good at trust,
the act of falling backwards into someone’s arms,
except once, sweating and sticky from the broken milkweed.
That day it didn’t matter if they had my back. My heels
were already tilting, my arms—false wings.
A suddenness of clouds, as the tree line
tugged the sky before my eyes.
A gamble is the form of faith
I practice. Laying with outstretched limbs
groaning in the canopy above—my body adjacent to prayer.
Boughs sweep the sky into view,
sweep it out again.