An Early Attempt at Melting the Meadow

In the dusty grasses, 
   no calm, only
rubbery stick pins

       pining at my thighs. 
The protruding green or
      the yellow penetrating

is only dead
     matter. The trees
have bound feet. 

     The billboard, 
a psychic messenger, material
     and lonely as a cloud.   

And you are nowhere
     to be found
in the garden 

    or the shifting
meadow. The beard bruised
    all rules for you. You hear 

him call, but you are 
    not allowed to answer. 
You meet him in hypnotic

    red in the crucified 
 afternoon. Do you
    call it unabridged

fire or hell sunny side up? You loved abuse
    once after all. Do not mistake 
the hole in the soft

    soil, the disappearing
earth, or him
     for my body. You are standing 

  naked with only my
     skin, damp in the dew. You carry
 clumps of recovery in sticky

    notes, seeking to extinguish what is
tacking you down, fastened
   in the finale of fresh grasses. 

H. E. Riddleton is a neurodivergent, mentally ill poetess in constant search of the perfect leaf and what it means to occupy a body in a state of inescapable interconnectivity with all other bodies. Her recent publications can be found in the Nasiona, Cold Mountain Review, and Coffin Bell Journal. She will also be featured in Fairy Tale Review in their 2022 Lilac issue.