By Jennifer Choi
we were leaving the forest
with a rope in hand, so we could avoid the full terror.
just having something to hold onto,
leaning into the endless despair.
we dreamed that everything would return to its place,
crows flew from the low sky,
& the night unearthed a grave of its own.
some felt relieved by the presence,
while others felt cursed.
we couldn’t put a bell around the cat’s neck.
a voice broke the long silence.
the rope split in two,
& some grabbed the part that split as a sign of agreement.
if our destination was the same, we would meet,
& after a quick exchange, they drifted away.
the group slowly thinned,
& with every split in the rope, its strength grew stronger.
even when it crumbled into dust in my hands,
or when it turned into a snake, coiling around my limbs.
wasn’t this the same path from before?
even if we abandoned the rope & ran,
the forest would never know where to arrive.
those digging up graves would often turn into crows & fly away.
“what kind of heart created this forest?”
they muttered.
from a distance, someone looked down on all of it,
his hands trembling with sorrow, gripping a rope like a chain.