You are gorgeous, actually
in ochre and gold
the way the light holds you, glowing
like a firefly
under frosted glass, the ripple
of your foot writes its own
along rotten logs—the slowest
ocean, the smallest tide, the stalks
of your eyes weaving
through thick air.
I’m sorry for the salt, for the buckets
of soapy water, for those who won’t
stoop to see you carve through the underbrush, turning boletes into balusters.
An uncanny universe is diffused
through your body—the glistening
trail you leave singing
of our terrible vision.
Erin Bryant Petty (she/her) is an artist and writer living in Michigan. She loves weird dreams and appreciates the uncanny, the strange, and the overlooked. When she’s not making things she prefers to be in the woods, marveling at mushrooms. Find her on twitter @ebryantpetty.