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.