by Luz Castaneda
That Would Keep You
Lichen licks around the stone’s edge
hangs off, frayed, a torn scab whispering
to its wounds underneath. I want to hold
your small fingers, guide your smooth hand
as you trace the rock’s ragged hem line,
already looking away, trampling a pile of leaves
near the trail’s thin scar, feet sliding
gouging muddy streaks where your heels
dug in, too comfortable in the underbrush
to tiptoe through the moment––
my mind turns like clouds snagged in wind.
I imagine you happy here: snapping twigs,
the neck of a red tanager’s song––missing,
you slip this skulk, my eye’s pander,
like a kit rolling a mossy rise.
Rain slips through a bed of needles,
softens the crisis of your joyful feet
across the forest floor somewhere ahead.
Is the first tendril tunneling out from seed,
to feel the sand and silt of loam,
a birth or a betrayal?
Before you traipse back, a pebble in your hand,
a smile curving your face, I feel the prick
of catchweed and cleavers
that would keep you.
Jared Beloff is a teacher and poet who lives in Queens, NY with his wife and two daughters. You can find his work in Contrary Magazine, The Westchester Review, Gyroscope Review and elsewhere. You can find him online at www.jaredbeloff.com. Follow him on twitter @read_instead.
Luz Castaneda was born in Brazil to Brazilian and Spanish parents. Since 2014, she has been living and working as an artist in NYC. She is a self-taught artist, a biologist, Ph.D. in Genetics, educator and researcher in the sacred language of nature. Her research and artwork are a combination of her artistic soul and scientific mind. Her art has been exhibited in multiple galleries in the United States and Brazil. www.luzcastaneda.com.