A new poem by Maia Armistead.

Mention of forest creatures

I have never entered a forest.
I have never sent stones careening
and not heard them fall.
I have never let a footprint fill
with wild ants and seen it walk off
without me. If there is a dark,
tangled secret of the forest, I
haven’t heard it. I lost it, in
the crash of a sorry old tree,
in the miniscule, quiet collapse
of a river of dirt. I have never
seen a deer give way to another,
smaller deer, and seen it drag itself
bodily from the ground, and
stagger blind like a wet twig.
I have never opened the door
of the forest and let it drift
shut behind me– I don’t like
to get my hands dirty. I will spit
and spit to get it off me. Only
my own disgust is sufficient, only
my own silence, my own massive,
my own green new leaf, casting
its own shadow. A beautiful,
unfeeling shadow, like a tear on
the face of the moon. Like an
eyelash on a bird. Like a shadow
on the floor of the forest, maybe,
in the shape of a leaf. If there
is a sun that touches the forest
I haven’t felt it. If I was ever in
the forest I turned around and
walked right back out again.