Dryad
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resembling a pair of acorns as they
pushed against the fabric of her blouse
— Han Kang, The Vegetarian: A Novel
You wake up in the morning
with the sap run out
of your veins
into a bucket at your bedside
the sunrise has already come and swept away.
You whistle for the feet you’d
curled like roots
into the steep of dreams
but they can’t lift themselves out of the earth
without breaking off their toes.
You touch your elbows and knees
as if they were knots
the nightmare had loosened but couldn’t untie:
hangman’s knots, perhaps, though you can’t recall
it was suicide or an execution.
All you remember is an evaporation.
A scent you gave off all night.
All you remember is the cold nose of the wind
that seemed to be everywhere without a mouth
and couldn’t hurt.