"Malformed" by Mia Avramut
Walking into the Shadows of Ashford Forest
This high grove is what the old know, above the torii gate
between Esquiver River and Wolf Creek. Below,
the young saw up woodlots for firewood. I pass stumps,
leave behind papered-over windows, the glare of streetlights,
patched storefront flags, and concrete outposts.
These woods hide markers. A maple burl
grows around a brass bell. Black rocks bear the singe
of fire-song rings. There’s a spring, the moss-silenced
falls, one beeswax candle stub, a tribe of armless
porcelain Charlotte dolls copper-wired to limber twigs.
This fir-green of promises and unbelted preparations.
My thunderbird slippers pad my footsore callouses.
I knead my toes, dip them in the rill. An aging woman knows
her body like swaying torsos of brittle birches.
A bit stiff, a little lithe, wind-bent, stilling to sit
on stone witnesses in the maze of worms.
My simple needs. A willow basket, two bits of bone,
a scrape of mother’s cliff-blown ash, my packet
of dried huckleberries. A stirring scapula
of driftwood. A suspicion of where the trail ends.
Where the shivering found shelter decades ago.
This is a place to lay down. No sizzle.
No rectangular caskets. I find the curved eagle wing
carved into Feather Rock, hear the fan
of ravens on wing lift. Read the print of deer
and the scrapes of black bear. Withering of blackberry
bramble. Moonlit first flakes of an early snow.
My body goes to ground, loam in the well of a fir,
tent of bending branches. I count holy star-fire,
see the glory of holes in the night, and press
my down-going breast in rest,
this day of intimate clay.
Tricia Knoll
This high grove is what the old know, above the torii gate
between Esquiver River and Wolf Creek. Below,
the young saw up woodlots for firewood. I pass stumps,
leave behind papered-over windows, the glare of streetlights,
patched storefront flags, and concrete outposts.
These woods hide markers. A maple burl
grows around a brass bell. Black rocks bear the singe
of fire-song rings. There’s a spring, the moss-silenced
falls, one beeswax candle stub, a tribe of armless
porcelain Charlotte dolls copper-wired to limber twigs.
This fir-green of promises and unbelted preparations.
My thunderbird slippers pad my footsore callouses.
I knead my toes, dip them in the rill. An aging woman knows
her body like swaying torsos of brittle birches.
A bit stiff, a little lithe, wind-bent, stilling to sit
on stone witnesses in the maze of worms.
My simple needs. A willow basket, two bits of bone,
a scrape of mother’s cliff-blown ash, my packet
of dried huckleberries. A stirring scapula
of driftwood. A suspicion of where the trail ends.
Where the shivering found shelter decades ago.
This is a place to lay down. No sizzle.
No rectangular caskets. I find the curved eagle wing
carved into Feather Rock, hear the fan
of ravens on wing lift. Read the print of deer
and the scrapes of black bear. Withering of blackberry
bramble. Moonlit first flakes of an early snow.
My body goes to ground, loam in the well of a fir,
tent of bending branches. I count holy star-fire,
see the glory of holes in the night, and press
my down-going breast in rest,
this day of intimate clay.
Tricia Knoll
Tricia Knoll is a Portland, Oregon poet. Her work has appeared in many journals. Her chapbook Urban Wild came out from Finishing Line Press in 2014. Website:triciaknoll.com
Mia Avramut is a Romanian-American writer and artist who worked in laboratories and autopsy rooms from Pittsburgh to San Francisco. Her poetry, prose, and artwork have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Prick of the Spindle, saltfront, The Knicknackery, Thrice Fiction, Conclave: a Journal of Character, Escape into Life, Santa Fe Literary Review, Petrichor Machine, Paper Nautilus, and several anthologies. She lives in Essen, Germany.
