To the Doctor Who Wandered into Our Village
No one is in pain. We don’t
need you. We want you. The violets
dripping from your crowned hair. The wine
you weep. Your blush when we ceremonied
ourselves to death and back. The way
your mangled body rebirthed from out
of the wolf’s mouth. How you crawled, stumbled
and broke into a run.
When we found you again in the woods, how we rejoiced.
How tenderly we laid you in the slit belly
of the bull slaughtered on your behalf.
Take account of this tenderness.
You must stay. All the cats in the hollow house
on the hill speak your name. The trees rip themselves
up to follow you, but footless they fall and lie
still with longing. The women drag busted bags
of black salt around your room and the boys
grow their teeth long to eat the little beasts
that scratch at your door. If you leave,
what will we do? Beautiful as you are,
we will be desolate. You cannot do this
to us. Healer that you are, you will stay.
*
V. Navarro is a poet from Tampa, Florida and received her MFA from the University of South Florida. She is currently pursuing a doctorate in Communication from USF where she focuses in performance studies.
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 