Alone

I found two young women, the loneliness of the forest reflected
in salty drops upon their fevered faces,
they say they are leaving for a sea of bitten nails.

They gaze through the soft moss, breathe out their breaths,
with sweaty palms they tear the green mane from their skin
and quietly ask:
“Where do you come from, shape?”

With the constant hiss of a viper,
misty clouds fade away
and first-time mothers want to go to sleep.