Forest of Exiles
A bonfire snaps,
and laughter leaps
amid the sparks.
Far from the clearing,
I lean into the dark,
trees in their bark
pressing me.
I could run
but I don’t run.
My belly carries
all the stolen
of night.
I could sing,
but I don’t sing,
I leave the truth
in my tracks.
Hulling
I remove the green —
fine, cutting.
I’m standing amid rows;
summer fruit, heavy;
bees swoon,
as if the air
has intoxicated them.
What do I cut, bleed,
knowing.
What is my deserted sun.
The earth yields,
still, whole.
Caves of Myrrh
The first, stone, moved,
a fine powder —
a last, ‘amen,’
a last feast,
of two, sitting
cross-legged,
at the entrance.
What next,
in the curl of
sweet scent?
One must rise,
one must burn.
My words
will keep my fire,
and so too,
our breath.
Artist:
Meg Smith is a writer, journalist, dancer and events producer living in Lowell, Mass. Her poems have recently appeared in PoLarity, The Cafe Review, The Horror Zine, Raven Cage eZine, and more. Her most recent poetry books, Dear Deepest Ghost and This Scarlet Dancing, are available on Amazon.
