in the forest
poem by Chris Taylor
we would go outside with our knives
and carve sticks into weapons,
paste mud on our cheeks and shoot
dried reeds at the sky. they didn’t get
very far and neither did my feet, no matter
how deep we hiked into the forest of our
backyard. i think i’m still ascending
recklessly, messily, scrambling up the
tree stand with skinned knees
and a scraped scalp.
i claimed i’d be a hunter and clung to the
rust with my knife and my sticks. it didn’t
take long before i slipped.
burnt fingertips and bruised forehead,
blade lodged in flesh. i should not have
been gifted the ability to traverse
dead birches in summer and winter, in
thunder and sleet; who decided i’d have
this sense of direction? i can
whittle the sharpest twig and skewer it through
the skin of my thumb towards the north or
east at will; they never stood a chance.
i’ve known the pigment of belladonna
since i was six, sitting legs crossed on
the boiling blacktop, mixing dirt
and flowers in paper cups, crushed
holly and mosquitoes. they were
strange when they saw how i lazed around
so naturally in a world full of poison.
i could sleep on any surface, consume
any substance until a three-inch
mattress started feeling like a bulls-eye rash,
concentric round a tick on my back.
they took the knife from me when i tried
to carve it out. they ate my collection of
dirt and rocks, poured the paint into the
sink. they declared war on rust and muskets,
dresses and spoons, they declared war
on the woods we live in.
Chris Taylor is a young writer who creates poetry as a coping mechanism, sharing it as a way to connect with others. In their spare time, they enjoy spending time around dogs, family, and listening to electronic and alternative music.
