Woods in Winter

in the woods in winter

was the first time i felt my own pleasure.

a barren oak, laid down gently against a hill:

the perfect slide. one only had to put on

one’s snowpants & begin at the top.

let gravity do the rest.

i would slide down that tree a dozen times

in a row, two dozen, its bark thick with

ice & packed down snow.

i would glide; i would fly.

i would grow warm.

i would begin again.

i was too young to have any word for it.

i was too young, even, to be ashamed.

perhaps this makes you uncomfortable.

to know that some children learn

things about their own bodies

that were never taught to them.

but back then, my body still belonged to me.

back then, nothing had been taken from me yet.

back then, it was not sexual, not really,

just a not-girl playing in the woods alone,

just a body alive & graceless

with its own wild music.

that child found something good,

& they chased it. & when they

returned home for supper,

which steamed thickly from the oven,

that too was good, & they ate.

many years later, after god & guilt,

when i began it in the proper way,

i tried sitting on top of the washing machine.

(i had read it in a book once.)

it was strange, & cold, in the unfinished basement.

(i did not like it.)

then, a boy tried to teach me how.

(he was wrong.)

& then, a boy taught me a different lesson.

he taught me that lesson so often

that fifteen years later,

my body can still repeat every word.

but i don’t want to talk

about what was

stolen from me.

i want to talk about the winter.

about my laughter visible upon the air.

about the cold racing through my lungs

like electricity, or fire, or flight.

about belonging only to myself,

& to the woods,

where i was always safe

& knew exactly where i was.