Do you remember the forest we ran through

when we were young enough to not know fear?

The leaves would tickle our cheeks as we giggled,

dodging logs and rocks and squirrels and toads.

The last day we went in together, we went deep.

Deeper, I think, than anyone had gone before.

At least anyone who had come out again.

I remember the sky, faded even at midday, the sun

unable to penetrate the leafy canopy as we ran.

We were older, then. Our bodies wanted different things.

We weren’t satisfied with pinecones and mushrooms,

we craved a darker satisfaction. A clearing, one we’d cartwheeled

through before when the summer was at its height and

the grass was carpeted with daisies, seemed like

a perfect place to seek what our bodies so badly needed.

The grass and the wisps of your mustache

that you were growing to look more mature

tickled my thighs as I looked towards the clouds and

prayed to the divinity of the woods, Holy Mother,

hear me worship thee. The thunderstorm came quickly

and we were dripping wet everywhere as we returned home.

That night I dreamt of moss and leaves, your tongue, and

the sound of thunder. When I woke, I felt a soft hand

pull me back into the woods, deeper still, and here I remain.

Will you come to me again? A shrine needs prayers, and my

thighs have been so lonely. I promise when it’s all over

I will let you go.

Alexandra Graffeo is a New York native with a Masters in Fantasy Literature from the University of Glasgow. She is currently working on her first chapbook, centered around historical and mythological women.