I wish to grow dumber,
to slip deep into woods that grow blinder
with each step I take,
until the fingers let go of their numbers
and the hands are finally ignorant as paws.
Unable to count the petals,
I will not know who loves me,
who loves me not.
Nothing to remember,
nothing to forgive,
I will stumble into the juice of the berry, the shag of bark,
I will be dense and happy as fur.

Noelle Oxenhandler’s most recent book is The Eros of Parenthood. Her
writings have appeared in many national and literary magazines, including
The New Yorker, Tricycle, and Parabola. She lives in northern California
with her daughter.

All rights reserved.
Posted by kind permission of the poet.