I woke up in a forest
by Sean Chapman
Published April 9, 2021
I woke up in a forest. Unsure
of the knotted skin of tall trees
and what ground lay beneath me.
I handled the meal of the forest floor,
the soft clay joined the lattice
of my skin; resting in lines
and in the undergrowth of my nails
—blue and metallic with the night.
Without image or memory; amongst
the labyrinth of leaf and branch—
without a lake to peer into and instil a life
I could only palm my features
and try to remember a nose
or soft lips that once may have kissed
something not of forest or nightly existence.
Sean Chapman is a British writer living in Cornwall beside the capricious Atlantic Ocean and amongst the blur of a Whippet and a Labrador. His past lives have included working in a Taiwanese astrophysics department, a Manchester disability support office, on a Salford mental health ward and running a rum bar on the Liverpool docks before washing ashore in a Cornish surf shop. Between daydreams of cowboy adventures and surfing escapades he writes poems, which have appeared or are forthcoming in Marble Poetry, Raceme, Squawk Back, Prole, Fenland Poetry Journal, Quince, Nymphs, The Opiate, Allegro, Montana Mouthful and others.
He can be found on Twitter: @seanchapman_1