It is outside. You go there. Things occur
that you can not imagine. And you change
scale wet rocks without falling, cure wolves’ mange
and make them loyal. Stronger than you were

through crystal mountains, hungry trees you roam
unscathed save for the fingernail you lose
to shrewbite. Feet grow harder without shoes.
You dream of love and wealth, but not of home.

What was the outside is inside you now.
Its briars fill your brain, discordant song
pounds heartbeat, blood tide, intimate yet wrong.
And then it’s over, leaves you. Curtsey, bow

to all the gods of Wild, with fur and horn
peeling away, go back where you were born.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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