Hanae Jonas
Self-slaking exile into the land of weeping spruces.
I still know in the right landscape
how to stay.
How to remain close
to the earth
or any range they’d call alive—
I am not my ugly evidence, I am
still armed by illusion
of sororal touch:
lank grasses under
my hands.
Safe from the guidebook: my extant capacity
to defect
to the flushed logic of deceit—
Scandal inside of which
no contract with the drab.
No drowsy silt always up ahead.
No use
for dark exits
to leave through.
