I thought of the German word waldbaden,
to bathe in the forest, but the sentiment is a suggestion
to weave the trees into your skin and soak
up the emerald light between their height.
I was expecting to love the grasshopper, the beat
of hooves. I was hoping I would dream
conversations between myself and the branches
met with wings. But even now
when the foxes race each other too close
to the highway I can see their frail bony chests
and throats as they swallow the air
violently. I prefer the scrawl of names
inside albums, entire pages of roadsides
and groves, the glossy sepia without a mouth
or wave of hair. My father never knew—
and He made sure he stopped at every lake,
lived in the parking lots and inside tents.
I open the cedar chest and find
nothing, only the cold smell of dust with mint—
still, I crawl into it. I stack and fold, sort and shove
my hands. Beside me the hummingbirds barely whisper
their bodies of sugar—summer remembers nothing
for us. I pretend to travel to my small bed inside the aquarium-
themed bedroom, my child forehead lying warm
against the pillows.