Lady’s Slippers Under Pine

On her way to join
a cult, she unearths
her identity on the edge

of the woods
where she used to get lost.

You, Conduit

To pretend to be
an atheist and still believe
in guardian angels is 

this house
where I live with blinds
closed tight. To profess to live 

in solitude by choice
while scars of loneliness tattoo
my legs, my soul, is 

to give loners
a bad name, is to let myself
down root 

cellar stairs into a leaky chamber
where only humans go.