in the forest, a debris cloud of woodpeckers crack their throats & the night promises nothing more or less than rain. your damp house huddles low, waiting for wind or a heavy shadow to dissolve the walls. it’s true you’re unprepared to fend for yourself or to dig moats to keep out the dogs. it’s true they will gnash holes in your stomach, leaving you to gap-drip beyond the tree line. your sister curls in the corner & bites her nails until they bleed sour on her chin. the rain pulses the tin roof. you want to leave this house & run into the forest. to soothe your bee-stung gums with lavender, becoming a wild thing that lives far from your own throbbing mouth. you want to rake your bones with ashfall & pour yourself into a new body that fears nothing.