I carved our names in a tree’s fat thigh
before I left, before her face faded
in memory’s black underbrush.
She is broken, scattered
Like the little light that hits
the litter, the poisons, both
ivy and oak ooze in this.
If I return to the woods,
would I find her or the carving,
would I find gall or a sapped—
over wound? Can I cool the rash?
Image: Kenneth Concilio on Unsplash