The Wild Ones

Sometimes, walking the track
where the gorse thins
and the fern breathes its damp breath,
I feel it rising in me—

that old, strange longing
for the soft-footed ones
to step out of the shadows
and choose me.

To nuzzle my open hand,
to look up with the moon-wide eyes
of the doe, the rabbit, the wary bird,
as if I were some benevolent queen
whom the forest has finally recognised.

How bright that dream is.
How dangerous.

Because there is another pulse in me, too—
older than language,
sharp as a flint worked to an edge—
the hunter who studies tracks,
who feels the heart quicken
at the rustle in the brush,

who imagines the tender body
drawn close,
a kiss of gratitude on its brow
before the swift, final stillness.

And I stand there, ashamed
and astonished,
wondering what kind of kingdom
lives under my ribs—

one hand reaching,
one hand closing.

The trees keep their counsel.
The wild ones stay hidden.

Only the wind answers,
passing through the leaves,
reminding me that love
and dominion
are not the same,

and that sometimes the truest mercy
is to want
and to let go,
and to walk home alone.

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Jasmine Yorke (she/her) is a queer mother and educator from Te Tai Tokerau. She draws inspiration from the rich social fabric and environment of Aotearoa.