DIAGNOSIS

I leave the campground before anyone wakes, seeking 
the smoothest trail, breakfast bar stuffed in a pocket, 

no backpack, no water, hand rubbing against every large 
redwood. Arms and legs on rhythm-duty pass the three bridges 

where metal has replaced wood, echo the wrong kind, 
like the words of the surgeon, Take a moment.

The breeze throws a nest to the ground. No one inside 
the careful circle of moss and plant fluff and outside, 

a bridesmaid’s tulle, lichen wrapped over more lichen. 
A jay mimics a kingfisher’s shuddering clap clap, feather panes 

of stained glass. Here, I give the jay full attention and the next, 
pick up the nest, lay it, twigs and all, where no one will steal. I know 

I’ve lost myself. Bend over, breathing hard. 
The barred owl’s Hoo hoo echoes the therapist: It’s okay 

to grieve. Drops of fog trellis through the trees from above, 
enter my mouth. Do I want to fight instead of gaping 

into clover? They face the same direction. Now I’m down 
on the forest floor of needles, hands into claws: flat, linear, 

and a low, guttural growl, the ruff of my neck rising. 

Laurel Benjamin is the author of Written into the Curve of the Sea’s Open Throat (Shanti Arts, 2026), and Flowers on a Train (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2025), a finalist for the Cider Press Book Award. She founded and leads Ekphrastic Writers, a group dedicated to writing and community. She is active with the SF Bay Area Women’s Poetry Salon and is a reader for Common Ground Review. Publications: Pirene’s Fountain, Lily Poetry Review, CALYX, Taos Journal of Poetry, Mom Egg Review, Nixes Mate. She invented a secret language with her brother. Read her work at: laurelbenjamin.com