miniature death

Every time I speak to you, I'm raw, the vension in the forest, the knife-bite and the red blood and the twisted branches pok- ing into my chest. I breathe out smoke and breathe in clean air. My body's detoxification, demanding the space to grow but the power to recede even as the deer stare deep into my eyes, the reflections bright and hollow against my shivering yellow skin. Des- pite the lack of movement, the deep gray resting my eyes, I know this is reincarnation in all its blood and gore. I know once I walk away, you wait at the end of the moss stone path. This death is to heal.