farmhouse rain

 

it came quiet like

a drifter through our opened windows

it played the hair on my arms as i wrote

ran my skin and skipped over my freckles

trying not to trip

on its way up my shoulder

yelling my name like an old best friend

on a grade school playground

it had so much to tell me

Artemis

Artemis hangs her hand off the bed and traces a vine on my wall.  It pries itself from the paper in little spasms and creeps to the ceiling where it flowers.  She buys cigarettes to light and let lie; she says she likes the smell of humans.  A linear callus stretches from the crook in her arm to the bones at her wrist; it is the print of her bow.  There is a hunter in my bed.