The memory built me around it.
An abandoned trail. A forest with no sky.
I was both the wood of the axe

and the wood of the tree.
A cat was dying in my bag,
and when the leaves looked away

I snuck it crushed berries from the path
and dead sparrows whose hearts
had burst out of their chests.

The scarlet stained my palm –
whether the blood of the berry or of the bird,
I couldn’t tell.

I was thirsty but afraid to drink.
When I reached the cottage,
you were waiting. You led me inside.

I offered you my hand, which you licked.
It was cleaner then
than it had ever been before.

Then you placed my hand on the door,
told me to cure it.
The door disappeared beneath my hand.

Image © Pawel Czerwinski

The poem is taken from the collection Chaotic Good, published by Faber and Faber.