Wandering through woodland,
combing only casually
for a glimpse of my mother,
I came across a simple stage
and, though the soil was shallow,
the trees just flimsy props,
I rolled up my sleeves
to bury all my matter.
If I used only my eyes,
I would hallow the limits of my limbs
and pull back just as moon eclipses sun,
scalding my soul’s retina for such nonsense;
but closing two to open one
finds her in a blazing instant,
feels the stage wash away
into the Auditorium,
to build again,
ready for my embrace.
I take up my position willingly,
my prompt eagerly,
my body tender
against the raucous trees,
succulent inside the soil;
everything with ease,
with purpose,
for her to have sensation
and other earthly things.
Rosa Walling-Wefelmeyer lives in the North East of England. Her work has appeared in, amongst other things, The American Aesthetic and The Journal.
