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 Review, Subtropics, The Hopper, and elsewhere. Read more.