H.R. WEBSTER
FERAL
what held you inside
yourself your skin
a tight band of sky
around a blank
colonnade of sea
I do not know
where you are
except in the secret book
hunger unwrote each morning
I think you might
have lived forever
I don’t know
how to speak
to you without
a narrator’s hand ghosting
in your throat
without imagining
you carrying everything
cave-dark that fell
out of me clumps of it
the blackened wick
| top |
*** ** ***
TRAIL MAGIC
spur track to pit
toilet & piped spring
lean-to
on the lee side
jerky & toothpaste
in the bear box
what do bodies do
to other bodies
strangers asleep
on each side each
kicked in hip
wet socks
rabbitted from rafters
breath my breath
try to imagine
what I did
before
salt wave
shouldering
ladder of wet
skin on wet skin
on bitter
thumb pressed
petals of the asshole
breath my
kicked in hip
+
I thought once
I could be erased
lavish threshed illiterate
wished it
from bodies
my own hand
+
what I blotted
out with walking
the smooth bole
of desire
paced wallow
of ferns
hock sucking mud
the memory
of interiors
& stories
I lost those too
could barely lift
my wrist my knee
| top |
*** ** ***
LONG TRAIL
The river yellow
with what it pulls
from the pines
the raccoon
on the bank
hung on a copper wire
of thirst its blackened
eyes its shifty
veil of flies
a cupped leaf
swallowed
by heavy water
the half life of loneliness bread
& instant coffee
eaten standing
after putting on boots
before tying laces
at dawn & at dusk
the body can’t
tell pains apart
belly from back
the hands shake
for sugar & salt
fingernails like a place
the moon was cut out of
hands broken
by the rope
ladder into the ravine
the water low today
the pump’s thrum
whetting a blade
of noise it keeps the head
blank like the animal
familiar the tongue finds
inside its mouth
like the silence
or is it sound
of the river
that runs its knife
through the night
| top |
*** ** ***
TRAIL NAME
wilderness to wilderness
I wore two marks
at the base of my back
as though I had been bitten
by the softest
heaviest mouth
the low spruces crowd out
what once wanted
thumbprint hummingbirds
in the jewel weed
the broach of a bruise
on my hip imagine if
I had sent you this letter:
I no longer miss
being touched
look how
my script has grown
so big in the cold
| top |
*** ** ***
LONG TRAIL
switchbacks scrawl
nonsense up Nameless Ridge
low crooked
searchlight buzzards
hung over
the bald top
did you see me carry
my spoonful of fire
mushroom caps
overthrown
a black dog
running wide eyed
through the honey
locusts
+
alone on the ledge
my body was all
that held the ground
cloth down
a voice outside
said girl?
I swear
I am here
I would like to tell you
I found tracks
circling where I slept
but the earth was too hard
to capture a mark
| top |
*** ** ***
FORAGE
caught when I dug
a trap in the woods
branches laced
over the pit
You could have hurt
a child broken
an ankle
pine needles braided
until they snapped
caught when I started a fire
with a bow caught
hoarding matches
under my tongue
+
the lean-to
was big enough
to sleep me
& the dog the cold
falling off her
coat like water
a sheet over
a mirror
+
carry a pot
to boil
water pooled
breath
on tarp seams
grey bouquet
you can eat
clover sorrel
cat tails
be willing to kill
small animals
be decisive
not cruel
+
I rubbed mud on my arms
stuck leaves and lichen on
my chest
cracked if I moved
I lay still
forgive me
please I did not
know another child
would replace me
+
to write
use poke-berry
& black walnut crushed
in books
children stayed
in the woods
seasons then
seasons more
everyone was happy
when they returned
in books
children buried themselves
in leaves for warmth
to the neck
quickly the ink
began to rot
I ran out
of smooth stones
to scrawl on
in books
children who live
in the woods
were orphaned
they don’t have to
say it
+
I can tell you
how to catch a fish
with a waterfall
how to make bitter
acorn bread hollow
out a tree with fire
in the woods
I’m always
looking for something
to eat caves
to call home
always reading
stories about children
raised by creatures
as kind as wolves
+
in the woods
you can be honest
about how much work
survival is
always looking for twigs
dry enough
to kindle a stone
to carry in case
an animal comes at me
from some corner
some night
| top |
H.R. WEBSTER
H.R. Webster has received fellowships from the Fine Arts Work Center, Vermont Studio Center, and the Helen Zell Writers’ Program. Her work has appeared in the Massachusetts Review, Poetry Magazine, Black Warrior Review, Ninth Letter, 32 Poems, Muzzle, and Ecotone. Her debut book of poems, What Follows, is due out from Black Lawrence Press in June 2022.
You can read more poems at hrwebster.com.
To download a printable PDF version of this page, click here.
| top |
A Dozen Nothing 