Knox Any Place That Would Receive Me
My mom taught me the power
of manifestation. You can bend
reality with just the power
of your mind, she’d say. More often
though, it seemed, reality stayed
its predetermined course and her manifestation
would retroactively mold itself to it. That’s what
I really wanted all along. Still, I manifest
finding Winslow as I call
for him into the night woods. I envision
hearing a crash of breaking twigs from the undergrowth
and him bounding to me; leading him out
to the road, where The Girl grants me the vision
of her glowing smile of gratitude, an amulet to carry
with me on my long and dangerous journey,
a secret fire by which to warm myself.
What a gift it would be, to write
such an auspicious prologue
to my new beginning.
I almost miss the whimpering over the rushing
of blood in my ears and my own panting
from the exertion of climbing the hill—the sound
of a lost and frightened gentle animal used to a life
of comfort, not built for rough and dim places.
The sound of anguish my heart made
when my mom pulled me away
from my home and dog Bilbo and dad
for rough and dim places.
I find Winslow in the brush,
his leash tangled on deadfall. I offer him
his gnome to calm him, which he accepts gratefully.
Your mama misses you, boy, I whisper to him
as I extricate him by feel, wishing I had
a flashlight (if I tried I wouldn’t be able
to snarl his leash up as much as it is).
Finally, I free him and he bounds
away, downhill. I grab the end of his leash just in time.
He jerks me forward. Whoa, Winslow, chill, buddy,
I say. We gotta get you home safe. He’s not
small and he’s frantic to get wherever
he’s going. I pick my way downhill
in the gloom, gingerly seeking purchase on the incline.
The Girl’s voice drifts to us like milkweed. Winslow!
He bucks again hard at the call, just when I’m searching
for footing. I catch my toe
on a root, tumble forward.
My forearm strikes a stone
like a hammer to an anvil and my consciousness
flashes white in an atomic detonation
of agony, decaying to a gray scourge of nausea.
Winslow loose again, running
toward the love he was built to receive,
and me, carrying my broken body to
any place that would receive me.