by Lorrie Ness

At a distance, the cabin bleeds

into the woods. The eye cannot tell how the poplars

arc away from its walls, as if saving themselves

from its contagion.

 

Maybe they’ve seen the blackness inside

and feared it might spill beyond the open doors.

Maybe it’s the recognition of timber as something within themselves

that keeps them back.

 

As I walk closer, white chinking

materializes between the logs. The cabin is skeletonizing

at my approach. I stop short, and turn away like the woods —

forget that I am marrow, that I am bone.