Olivia Olson
Shy in my shorts, I pull my body big
and slow through the forest.
The catbird purrs. The villain-sexy
tanager sweeps overhead.
Up the hill, my huffs sing not-young,
not-young. The sun
pushes her lovely fingers
through the trees to prod me, and
gnats swirl like a magic spell
in her thrall. A buck,
out there in the forest, a giant buck
rests like an old god. Bugs drown in my eyes,
in my lungs, in the damp above
my gaping mouth. What gall
I have, to take in all this beauty
and contribute none. What golden gall.
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