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 Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, Split 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)
Crow & Cross Keys 