alexis paschal

retracing but not leading
the path to a private place
alone but not entirely
only the occasional punch
in my gut we are the
bugs in the still air and on
my sticky skin my hand
slaps! but misses the
blood-thirsty things

lost, now, in a field of
green and brown beyond the
trees and cows the
crickets drown out the longest thirty minutes
my brother dips his
bloody palms in
the warm moss-covered
water there’s no fish
here my legs itch and
the grass is already
taller on the walk