house in the woods

my hair is growing wild.
i ask you, "have you seen the little black house
in the middle of the woods?"
it is nighttime & all the deer are 
standing on their hind legs & walking
like people through the forest.
you tell me never to talk about that,
especially in the dark. what i do not tell you
is that i have woken up there. 
a bed the size of a welcome mat. fire going
in the hearth. i had to crawl through the brush
& follow the two-throated trees until
i reached our front door. i do not have a razor.
i'm afraid of my hair growing.
terrified of what it might mean 
to become a hollow where voles come
to say their prayers. i take myself as close to 
the skin as possible. i think someone lives there
or else it is my little black house in the woods.
always meant for me to return. i do not want
to know what i'll find if i stay. 
maybe you have one where you also wake up.
we talk too much about secrets
as if they are a bad thing. without secrets
i do not think i would be a self. 
each like an acorn. the future unborn trees
rocking, tongues curled. 
maybe though we also talk to much about a self
as if it is a good thing. 
there was a moment this last time
that i wondered what would happen
if i never left. if, instead, i went out to get firewood.
fed the flames. watched the chimney 
pour ghosts into the mountain's stubble. 
invited the deer over to talk about death.
birds, delivering me seeds to my windows.