The wife was wood, and out o’ her wit.
Look, you! and by that I mean listen up, you with no eyes and no ears, you with no legs, all
rooted to the ground and tangled one with another, the messages you send invisible,
inaudible. I am telling you: that trick in the Scottish play was a human hoax and
you’ve no right to think you can borrow it. You’ve no rights at all,
despite what Ecuador says. In league with the pooping birds you are, and heading
north in droves. Not groves: the oldest word, the smallest unit, cleared of underbrush.
Then wood: the place, singular or plural, wood the substance, wood the archaic adjective.
Whose woods these are I think I know, they’ll drive you mad so in you go.
Last word, forest: the outside woods, what the forum banned to the commoner in the
Capitularies of Charlemagne, the royal game preserve. How my language clings to the
Anthropocene and LOOK! YOU ARE NOT LISTENING!!! Malcolm wanted cover. Tolkien wanted
Ents. Dorothy wanted an apple, and got herself pelted. What do you see through those
knotholes anyway? What do you hear with those roots? You who are so lovely, dark and deep.
Abandoning us to the zombie forests, without so much as a by your leaves, moving on
up to the north side, breaking up the permafrost, colonizing the tundra. Whose fault
this is I think we know. Do as I say, not as I do. Come back to us. Come back.
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