Resa Blatman, Coitus, 2005
Oil on wood
46 x 66" 

In the forest of ill intentions:
a carpet of bull nettle, barbs

and stinging spores. A single
doe trespasses through the pines.

Here is the wilderness of null:
serpent bed, red mud, fungi

white as the dead. I have walked
here and not walked here. How

many times will I set the needle
on the back of a floating locust leaf,

divining for true North? Where
were my footsteps? What does

survival mean? Unlike
the cicada, I cannot shed entirely

the shapes I have assumed. If evil
enshrines the self above all else,

then nature is its altar: doesn’t that
sound true enough? I see only

the small hill made by the corpse
of a great black boar, moths

opening and closing their bodies
like dire little envelopes.


Robert Campbell