My Dear, apart is not away enough
to describe how far we are. I want to tell you
about the woods I hike through. Do you know
about forest bathing? It’s the most clean
you can get with your clothes on.
When the air is warm enough for short sleeves,
the leaves and spider webs along the trail tickle
my arms. After years hiking there every day,
that brushing no longer bothers me.
When clear-cutting began, I walked there still,
staying just out of sight of the backhoes and skidders,
just inside each day’s new treeline. I told myself
I was bearing witness, serving as disloyal opposition.
I walked there until I no longer could, until I heard the falling
and the saws in my sleep. Had to find another forest
to bathe in, to scrub my mind.
I don’t want to tell you about my back, about the two points
of pain. Last week, someone asked, What is the bridge
between where you’ve reached your furthest extent to connect,
and the place where your needs get met? I didn’t know how
to reply. For as long as I can remember, the bridge has been me.
You say you haven’t been sleeping either.
Have you tried a warm bath, or has your tub, too,
been drained? Does a saw buzz in your brain?
–
Jennifer Bullis is the author of Impossible Lessons (MoonPath Press). Her poems and essays appear in Gulf Coast, Indiana Review, RHINO Poetry, and Water~Stone Review. She is the recipient of an Artsmith Residency fellowship, honorable mention in the Gulf Coast Prize, and Pushcart, Best New Poets, and Best of the Net nominations.