the whip-poor-will chimes The oaks and pines swallow me as I walk into the woods. The air is spiced and tangy, a single breath of bloom and death against my skin. Sprawling moss and outstretched ferns absorb me in their belly of green; enzymes digest my guises. Aged trees, wooden bodies crossing in the canopy, groan at guard. The whip-poor-will chimes and I— Cellar spiders float on glimmering tines; copperheads, camouflaged, glide—and I— The whip-poor-will chimes and I— I can no longer spin or molt this haunted, holy skin. The whip-poor- will chimes.
Natalie Callum is a writer and poet living between St. Louis, Missouri and Wyoming. When she is not writing, she can be found outside free climbing and exploring with her much beloved husband.
Very evocative. I wrote a similar poem about a nightingale – similar only in that I saw it in a pine forest!
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