A poem by N.L.H Hattam.

You chase me down in forests of my making,Electric, wooden, concrete, all.Outside the talk-talk chains andWolf sharp teeth born. Your raven shape dares me to make myself,Again and again,In logic cages and fact-checked mazes.Your coyote wantsLaughs, and laughsWhen absurdity rhymes.You river-self accepts me in,Cold and babbling.Until your bear spirit returns with raw SpringTo run me down the cave,Back and back.Keeping me home with fur and claws.Your oldest father fly form buzzes in my ear,More and more,Until I swat protection aside.In the grass, I forget your snake guise.Your rattle scares me into the sacred moon,Dark and darker still.But it is the morning mist you that will bite,On the night when I thought my burning had brought the forest back to ground,And I forgot my fire soul can still drown. Featured Image (modified) CC0