Lizzy Burnam 🐞

Where man himself 
         is a visitor 
               who never remains 
        and all there is to do 
is get lost in it,
           I walked a little further 
                than I had the energy for,
        seduced 
by the soft shapes 
            and billowing horizons. 
                                  The dunes face 
                a snow-tipped mountain range 
        of the same silhouette, 
mirrors of each other, 
        as so too 
                do the moon and the sun 
         share the same sky. 
My feet sink but aren’t 
           swept under by the sand,
                    adrift along the snaking body 
        of the land. 
This wind who cools 
         my skin and begins 
                      to erase my footprints 
         as soon as they’re made. 
This sunshine 
        who freckles my nose 
                        and sings lullabies 
        about a season gone, 
a season still to come.
      This sand 
                whose embrace 
         is smooth as water 
and strong as stone, 
           enough to slip but never 
                       swallow. 
         This moment, 
making love to the cosmos.
           I loop my cursive name in the sand. 
                        I draw my sister’s face. 
           To be loved is not to be needed, 
but to be chosen:
          to be a vessel 
                     for the light 
          of a far-away star. 
No trails to follow, except 
          the one that gets you there. 
                        Hours pass 
          and nothing matters. 
A love so true, 
          I must be mad. 
                     In my head, 
           I sing: 
                            I'm just a kid who's four
                           Each day I grow some more
                           I like exploring, I’m 
                           Caiiiillou

I sit up with a start. 
My hands shake. 
My knees ache. 
My stomach rumbles. 
You knucklehead, how far have you gone? 
Even Achilles. 
And I run until I can see people again
crawling and sliding 
down the slopes 
like little black beetles. 
I feel a blister burst 
and take my boots off. 
I remember a question 
I never answered 
because I couldn’t find 
the words, but 
they come to me now 
like the first few drops of rain 
after a drought,
and I cry and I mewl 
like a baby bird 
with her beak raised 
for a worm.