by Tuscan Harper
The great slug rippled over every leaf and needle, shadows contracting to
some subaudible rhythm, moon drooping half obscured from its eyestalk.
Eight mud-laden boots waded through, five steps at a time, then waiting to listen.
Frogchant climbed among the horsetails, a lattice of whispering crickets, five more
steps, then waiting to listen.
Bonfire Hands tore a clump of gelatinous shade, taught the children to conquer.
He gripped the night’s flesh, kneaded it between his palms into a workable black clay,
molded a four-armed freak, lumpy and vague.
He danced like a spider bite as he worked, like a shot bear, made a veil of his body
against the children running laps, scavenging for their own piecemeal specter.
Lower arms out of proportion, jaw sunk halfway down its chest, left leg with an extra
knee.
Bonfire Hands cast his monster out into the low gathering salal before anyone could
look straight at it.
Gust-choked hemlocks at their backs, all dead matter convulsed, powdered leaves
trailed the children.
A silhouette leapt overhead, just an instant, like the stars blinked, like they were all
half-conscious until Bonfire Hands started wailing, named himself the carver of
all stories.
Such is his story of the seed, roots opening fast, like tossed firecrackers, like ten
fingers holding down the sun.
Tuscan Harper (he/they) grew up on Whidbey and Fidalgo islands. Now he’s a student at Western Washington University studying music and computer science. When he has a bit of spare time he writes. When he has more time he wanders a nearby mountain. His poems are vague dreams carried along as much by thoughtful imagery as by their narratives.