My neighbor, a beauty, runs naked
into the woods singing
"Help me help me help me help me."
I find her rolling in thorns,
stuffing her mouth with leaves.
     I say, "Please come with me."
     She says, "Blackberry tea."
She bleeds from her back and buttocks.
I reach out my hand.
She flees: barefoot, through brambles.
Somebody has called the volunteer fire brigade.
We come upon her in the hollow of a redwood.
Again I offer my hand.
She clutches and suddenly
pulls fist
to belly.
In an instant the fingers know it all:
     heat, grit, sweat,
     firmness of flesh.
I am paralyzed.
     Dimpled thighs,
     dark electric hair,
     dazed eyes.
A fireman takes her arm,
wraps body in blanket,
stuffs her into the cab of
a fire truck the color of blood.
Men remove helmets and yellow slicker raincoats.
Flashing lights go suddenly dark.
The radio sputters farewell;
neighbors disperse.
Soon street and forest are silent.
My hand
still burns.