I come to the woods
to shed the truss of me,
rub up against the trees like a bear
with an itch or a deer antlering
so I can breathe again full deep
in lungs that pump what this tall oak
rustles up, filtering the minor chords
of a caregiving life, my holding on
to what is gone, my wanting more,
my wanton ways of walking past
what anchors me. This tree—rooted,
bound to earth, trunk a stretch
of open arms, palms synthesizing
sunlight, stress, my toxic breath,
and in the high leaves,
resurrection.
—
Nancy Huggett is a settler descendant who writes, lives, and caregives on the unceded Territory of the Anishinaabe Algonquin Nation (Ottawa, Canada). Find her work in American Literary Review, Passages North, Poetry Northwest, and The New Quarterly. She’s won some awards (2024 RBC-PEN Canada New Voices Award) and a gazillion rejections. She keeps writing.
