Poetry

a poem

Dormant

We want this.

The end to sleeping, the bittersweet

arousal, the peeling back, the soft bath

in resin, the release. It can’t come quick

enough, the hot touch that breaks the crust

and lets us go. Hear it now: a crackling,

as the woods begin to sing alongside the birds.

To cry out! To be transformed, like Daphne

back into a girl. Pine—as if our very nature

demanded that we long without relief. But the cone

is like a shotgun on the wall; it must erupt.

All it takes is one dumb fuck, trigger-happy,

with a six-pack and bad aim,

to generate the spark that turns the world to flames.