by Erin Morris

I become the girl that you’re used to seeing everyday she
stops by and is jokes and smiles until the day
she stops coming.
A few weeks later I show up again and you
seriously love me this time.
What did I do in the meantime?
     Got a haircut, went through puberty,
no really I went down to the riverside
once the trees had given up all their leaves and
buried myself in the leaves, it took a while.
I dug a shallow pit with my chin and elbows and
waited for the wind to send the leaves over me,
it had to be natural.
     I decided young that I wanted death by snowing.

Deep leaf drifts built
up around me I
closed my eyes
slowly like actresses do since their full eyelashes have become
symbolic grief or “inner turmoil.”
     I have star-white cheeks too
     did you notice before I left?
There was a purpose not involving you at the time, I settled in and
listened to the wind combing and the river
groaning and I waited for a vision,
not necessarily an answer.

I had three dreams
in the first one Uncle Carl an eighty billion dollar man wanted
to make amends
upon his wife’s deathbed and
while I was about to have all my problems solved my grandmother
called him an asshole and chased him off the porch
with a rake.
He had been so horrid to her and her mother I understood but I
swallowed her like a snake but I
never heard from Carl again anyway.

My second dream must’ve been from the point of view of a
chrysanthemum or I laid on the ground and
never blinked facing up
I didn’t see much I was in a forest but yet
I saw everything, as much life coming and going as in a
hospital, that old metaphor for the universe.
And somebody was holding petals with me but I couldn’t turn to look.

The third dream was you, reaching
through the leaves
to cup my face
     and that is exactly how I knew I was dreaming.
Waking from that one the wind had uncovered me it was time
to go, river otters
were waiting to take my place and hibernate.

I show up with leaves in my hair which you
find wildly attractive but make fun of me.
I try to make an entrance again this time with
well-ordered hair
and you have a “deep respect” for me.
So on my third try I go back to being a sex object because
it’s more satisfying and
     besides I’ve already decided you
     won’t be the father of my children, it doesn’t matter
     what we think about each other.
But wait you’re not just a character I manipulate on paper you have
something surprising to say. “Did you know there was a grove
of baby silver pines in our living room? I never noticed. Their
needles make a shining soft carpet. Until you left I
couldn’t say I love you.”