Go Out in the Woods, Go Out

I read somewhere, Go out in the woods, go out.

Though sometimes the woods are a forest floor 

of asphalt and sidewalks with quasi-trees 

of purslane weeds fanning out from cracks.

And what if, for years, I can’t get out of bed,

what then? Must I literally go out in the woods 

so something will happen, and my life will begin?

What are woods but places I can access 

anywhere, dark places—some terrifying

some good—with floors that smell of pine-

scented cleaner, organic, so I don’t lose my mind. 

Places with mushrooms sprouting on rotting logs

or playing dead in a square box in the fridge.

Woods with moss so deep 

my hands sink, nearly disappearing into the soft 

bed, with that canopy I never bought. No canopy,

no trees to block me from the sky,

so I close my eyes

and feel the boundary of my skin disappearing. 

Breathing this ocean breath I feel

the briny deep flowing into me,

then receding, then into me again, my breath

sounding its ebb and flow:

closed lips, slack jaw, saltwater

rushing in through the top of my head,

flowing down to my toes, then back

the way it came on repeat.

I am not my body. I am the ocean. Breathing—

a skinless soul shaped like me

swims among dolphins, whales, and krill,

then all of us float up

until we are in the Milky Way

swimming again, our muscles and blood vibrating 

at the same frequency of planets, these planets 

of minerals we absorb and become.

GWENDOLYN SOPER’s poetry appears or is forthcoming in Atticus Review, New Ohio ReviewSubtropicsThe Hopper, and elsewhere. Read more.

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