I. Don’t leave me in the wilderness, holding fruit that, once fresh, turns brown slowly in my hand. Come, come with me. I’ve laid a trap, and you, having seen it, won’t come. No trap, but a hiding place, for some other woman. I stumbled into it myself, and am stained with mud. Come with me to this place, now dark. I bring a small light to share with you. It will be enough, I believe. Oh, you have a torch yourself, though unlit. Will you walk with me? II. In this first moment of woken slumber, I don’t see clearly yet. The ground, the air, they still feel cold. But I’m alive. The present force of flowing blood passes through skin into the small place around me. Come by me, you will see, you will feel a little heat. What do you see where you walk? Is it a narrow path? Well trod, new? How are your shoes? Can I mend them? Some stones are sharp. What creatures do you see? This morning a V of birds flew north but I didn’t hear their cries. We could use their flight as a compass, if we had need of one. III. Are you hungry? I have this fruit. It’s bitter you know, and stains, but it will feed you for a little while, if you haven’t eaten yet.
Rachel Jardine is an Associate Editor at Wayfare. She mothers her children in San Antonio, Texas, and practices law.