What I Love About the Woods
What I love about the woods is the way they close around me like the humid maw of a giant beast. All sounds dampen. You know the old adage about a tree falling in a forest and no one being there to hear it? The answer is it doesn’t make a sound. Nothing makes a sound in the woods, except for the way my feet rustle the underbrush and my breaths echo in my ears. If you’ve ever laid down in a clearing at midday and let the sun blind you and the ants nibble at your fingers and the roots pull you in deeper and deeper you’d know what I mean. I think I’d like to drown in the shallow brook. Or merge into the old oak as it grows. The squirrels will pick the acorns growing from my fingertips and store their stash in my chest where my heart is now bark and wood.
Judas, Or the Betrayer
Washing your feet is a euphemism for sharing a bed. Locking limbs. Which are euphemisms in
themselves. Why is no one willing to speak plainly of our acts? Not even me. Not even you. Are
they scared that the betrayer is lovable? Or just lovable by you? You, who is supposed to be
the holiest of us all, you, who fraternizes with lepers and whores. And me, the betrayer.
Destined for the lowest circle of hell.
From Devon Fuchs: For someone who doesn’t go out much, I sure write a lot about the outdoors. Also, I’m Jewish, but something about Christianity just gives so much fodder for the imagination. I’m also queer. Very queer.