Wild
There is something feral in me
it rises up sometimes
snarling, writhing, clawing to be expressed
Desperate to escape the structured uniformity of the socially acceptable
sterile lunch breaks
food in plastic, time in boxes
addicted to comfort
we’ll take warm and dry
but not the cold and wet
Screens that drain the life, the spark, the brilliance
of minds that want to roam
horizons not browser tabs
and ears that want to hear the trees
whispering their secret tongue
I want to crouch naked in the river,
drink its water into my veins
from earth crusted hands
I want to run barefoot with the birds
but I settle for dancing like a banshee
At the top of the dirt track
for the sun as it rises,
passing no judgement
not like the little white dog
who yaps his disgust
My head longs to be thrown back
in a howl to the moon
in the cackle of a crone
My eyes want to cry tears that shudder my bones
bones that want to stomp the earth
dance the dance of the wicked
wobbling flesh, heaving chest, bared teeth
What does it mean to be wild?
To see the illusion of boundary
between human and nature
To know that our breath is that of the sighs
through the trees
the rhythm of the rock beneath is ours
our footsteps, our heartbeat,
We are what we try to deny
heaving, pulsing, rotting
The dying, the crying,
the caged, the shamed
We fend it off with walls, with glass, with boundaries
with screens and appointments and not-enough-time
to remember where we’re all headed,
where we came from
Maybe if we knew
we would hesitate a little more
before digging holes in our own skin
and draining it dry
When it comes to our last breath
we will all belong to her again
and maybe it won’t be so bad after all
