I hide in the family woods and
wait for it.
Brother and Sister,
Ask and Embla come

to the edge.
I was born from driftwood.
I made myself
a thrush—

the song is smoke over the fire now.
Aspens are charred limbs.
They are abstract.
Brother and Sister set this

I hold the veiny leaves
falling blackened to the dirt.
Impress them in my palm they come apart.
The trees contort

from heat, they
groan—the branches scribble furiously and
I am separated
in the burning. Plumes float over.

Now I recover form.
I walk the limbs and am forever forgetting
what was my name
Life or zest or Leaf or Lifprasir

what was my detail-soaked skin—
Not this
the convulsion didn’t save the other
half of things.

What was here
before they came through the unveiled sex of
the sky and left fire
for small things?

Ask and Embla,
Brother and Sister made
a perfect forest.
It is perfect. I remember my limb.