I crawl inside the roots of this tree
Wedging my shoulders through.
The narrow crack barely fitting,
like the prom dress that I kept,
that it’s only a little tight
even as it restricts my movements.
Twisted and contorted into
the too-small space,
the darkness smells
both of the living cambium
and the faint sweet decay
Of old woman, old wood.
This is how Daphne must have felt
Escaping her rapist
By denying her humanity.
from the dverse poetics prompt of 11/19 “surrealism”, and off a prompt from Facebook “the space inside the roots of the oak tree.”