Anchorite

On my knees, I press
my fingers against the blades
of grass, feel them slide between
your shoulders as you shrug
off clouds, the heavens, the night
sky full of stars.

In a pagan moment I really do believe
in all the gods, every one, and I hear
you call the needles as they fall
from the trees, sense their questions,
their tugging relentless as the earth
tides balancing on tectonic expectations,
their nervous insistence a thumping
testament to my devotion like skin
drumbeats on a mountaintop.

I know you, I say, your warm brown
body, the movement of your sleeping
wonders, the aching breath of spring
lingering in the hollows of your neck.
I remember those thighs, and the arch
of your heart, its stiff walls and liquid
anger drawing heat energy straight through
old ley lines and over barrow tombs
crossing and recrossing the holy
with the utter familiarity of disregard.

[Lynette Mejia writes science fiction, fantasy, and horror prose and poetry from the middle of a deep, dark forest in the wilds of southern Louisiana. Her work has been nominated for the Rhysling Award and the Million Writers Award. You can find her online at http://www.lynettemejia.com.]

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