FAWN

Dear Mother,

It’s the moonlight and dew hour. My edges catch on fog noise and bramble. The great horned owl pans its amber hymn across my cranium. I am suspended, disembodied, in particle flux, radial drift. The leaves of the bur oak turn me over, unfix me from tonal systems. I, atonal, cry upon merging. Swimming in it all, I am water for the ambient. I’m vibrant with a static math. Aldebaran grows wings. This night I dreamed I was devoured by a rose. There was a glitch in the forest, and I witnessed myself splinter through a narrowing field, the cicada sunset diminishing behind me. The woods shuddered and the midnight sun sent the parallel angels to shepherd me towards the rose, so vibrant against all the dim matter surrounding, so fragrant amidst all the shuttered blossoms. The angels grew quiet when I asked where you were and if they were sure this was right. When I felt I was drowning in the rose, I couldn’t bring myself to trust it anymore as it told me to be starlight. Mother, I was led here by a fresh optics. I was entranced by a new texture of existence. I fear it was not a dream. Where is my body? I find words on the page of every petal. They teach me my errors, sing my uncertainties back to me in a voice that is mine and also yours. I gather them to show you when you find me someday soon. We’ll read them together under moonlight by the lake.

Growing strange in the rose,

FAWN