Solitude is Not.
by Melissa King
Shade snakes a dark river,
one sunflower tall the hill beside me,
mercy settling where body can
hold it between two deer and asphalt
elbow wrinkles where sun is
obstructed. I see better.
Above fallen Lord’s candles,
archer’s bow in the sky pulls
an early storm, storytelling to scrape
meaning against horizon’s indigo oil
painting the deep boundaries between
where I will and won’t go walking
alone. I know better.
Clouds drag fingerprints
wrung, raisined. Raven pecks
shameless in a mudhole holding
under rain-bright wings, side-eye all
I’ve dropped into the creek,
and dissolving, I have the humid skin to
touch him today.
Melissa King is an anthropologist, educator, and poet curious about the edges where discernment lives, where thresholds of transformation are met. She writes in relationality and contemplation. Her poetic work began to emerge during ethnographic fieldwork, as a form of witnessing and reimagining. She works in higher education and is often found wandering the mountain trails of Southern California.