My neighbor, a beauty, runs naked
into the woods screaming "HELP ME."
I find her rolling in thorns,
stuffing her mouth with leaves.
I say, "Please come with me."
She says, "Raspberry tea."
The mind cannot tell what the flesh will not say.
She bleeds from her back and buttocks.
I reach out my hand.
She flees: barefoot, through brambles.
Somebody has called the volunteer fire brigade.
We come upon her in the hollow of a redwood.
Again I offer my hand.
She clutches it and suddenly holds it to her belly.
In an instant the fingers know it all:
heat, grit, sweat,
firmness of flesh.
I am paralyzed.
Dimpled thighs,
dark electric hair,
dazed eyes.
A fireman takes her arm, wraps her in a blanket,
stuffs her into the cab of a fire truck the color of blood.
Men remove helmets and yellow slicker raincoats.
Flashing lights, suddenly dark.
The radio sputters; neighbors disperse.
Soon the street and
woods are silent.
My hand
still burns.
from Son of a Poet
© Copyright 1986 by Joe Cottonwood