a small pill,

a loose thread at the hem

of my sweater

I pull

when I’m anxious.

My body is

an outline filling out my clothes,

a soft adipose over bone,

is something I forget.

When it’s warm

I stand in the tree’s shadow.

She beams her filtered light down at me

and I smile back at her

like a mother,

hold her branch like a hand

to guide me.

I call my shadow the swamp,

name it dark and deep.

This is what the folk tales call it –

She wandered into the wood /

she walked to the wrong side of the mountain /

she went running with the wild

dogs / she let her hair be taken by the wind /

she tore off her clothes /

she came home to her body /

she wove a blanket and wrapped

herself in it.