Fairy Tale for Backwaters & Hesitant Mothers—Taylor Hamann Los

A woman walked into the forest 
and never came out. In this wood, 
there are eyes rimmed with pine 
and brush and hunger so deep 
it could bend bones. They say 
she wanted a child, but her body 
curled away from blood 
and so she was swallowed
whole, her organs evanescing 
one by one like mist on the creek’s 
stagnant waters. They say the trees 
breathed her in, siphoning her life
because their own children perished 
in the fire. Flames had cast their skeletal 
remains to the forest floor—
this graveyard for squirrels and saplings.
And all that remains of the woman
is the timbre of leaves scratching against
their boughs. They say you can hear 
rustling in the stillest of winters. 
See, even the bark is weeping.

Taylor Hamann Los is an MFA student at Lindenwood University. Her poetry has appeared in Parentheses JournalAnti-Heroin ChicSplit Rock Review, and Rust + Moth, among others. She lives with her husband and two cats in Wisconsin. You can find her on Twitter (@taylorhamannlos) and Instagram (taylorhlos_poetry) or at taylorhamannlos.wordpress.com.

photo by Sonny Sixteen (via pexels)