Take me to your trees.
Take me to your breakfasts,
your bad dreams,
Take me to your fingers.
— Margaret Atwood, from Good Bones
He is wilderness
and carries weeks of scents
he makes his own
I’ve come to understand how forests once were granted personalities by those who lived beside them
one day welcoming, one day stalking in the darkness of the deep like the sea
but even then, even when the rules are laid down clearly
there is a certain arousal in not wanting to be touched while being touched
there is this thrill in slipping in in pushing his fingers inside of me as I push and kick in the sheets
swallowing his wilderness that’s calling me