Girl in a Green Dress by Jane Rosenberg LaForge

I awoke to water moccasins
in my hair, my feet showing
through my fins, so I took to
land to outrun amphibians,
though it meant risking my
suppleness to grit between
my scales. I gasped at stillness,
forgot to look at the stars,
which are said to be more
numinous than they appear
under water, their utility
undiluted by milieu and brilliance,
so they may guide even
the stubborn. I learned earth
is static yet infinite, if you include
the air they breathe, the sight
of fire in the hills, the mud
that comes after to reshape
the trails and expose the coffins,
the dead continuously pushed
deeper into their nests of soil.
I wanted to rest again on what
is neither bone nor vegetable,
but was confused by birds,
their hollow architecture
like propulsive coral. I am
here to say the legends are
all true: the thirst and allure
is like a hook through the sole;
bulls and wolves become men
and retreat back into hoof
or hide, disguise themselves
in hair or great barriers of ivy.
I am banished from home
and when I speak, my voice
leaves me silent.
Jane Rosenberg LaForge writes poetry, fiction, and occasional essays from her home in New York. She is the author of a memoir, two novels, three full-length poetry collections, and four chapbooks. You can find her on Twitter @JaneRLaForge, or on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100063717211528