dervish; wolf 2
by Melissa Leto
Melissa Leto, d;w, manuscript draft, mixed materials, digital photograph, 2024. Courtesy of the artist.
dervish; wolf 2
melissa Leto | May 2024 | Issue 33
hemlock
it was happening throughout what used to be called villages when what used to be called fathers
owned what we were once referred to as daughters until one day, despite her father’s
warning to stay out of the forest, Faa came upon a rabbit grazing hemlock
she thought to ask if they would be willing to donate their body,
full of fool’s parsley for the stewing pot
do you wish to topple a giant?
rabbit chorused the request through warrens underground and soon, tens of rabbits emerged
they wish to topple giants as long as they can graze so Faa cut saplings and grew
them outside her father’s kitchen window the thoughts he had watching her
were enough to make the hemlock mature overnight so that another child would not have to.
and so it began, how Faa grew hemlock and became known as the whisperer of rabbits
before she became the killer of fathers.
Melissa Leto, d;w under solar eclipse, digital photograph, 2024. Courtesy of the artist.
INT. TRIARCH: NIGHT
lights are dim or there are no lights.
the cypress itself hollowed, topless, ceilingless
just sky ursa major
Faa is unconscious her skull in the hands of Dervish
Dervish staring down, Faa opens her eyes to Dervish canes venatici
DERVISH
don’t talk. you’re safe. they can’t sense
us here. trust me.
daylight soon. questions then.
your eyes will adjust or else the light will.
Dervish unblinking, reading Faa’s spectrum.
Dervish follows Faa’s eyes upward, takes her hand:
feels the lives of every sprout Faa ever planted
in the body of mother earth. in Dervish’s hands Faa
feels ocean, time lapping, drinking, wet, salted, green.
everything that would/had/did/ever happen between them
did right then echoed in all directions.
Dervish leads Faa through the body of Triarch long tunnels bioluminescent,
away from and full of stars threads aqua pulsing in the shadows
Faa sees them for the first time: roots though she doesn’t know what they are
can’t make them out, sees they are like the stomachs of snakes digesting, but what? she
can’t see clearly. something big. they’re like earth worms she thinks, breaking down form
for the sake of–
Faa opens her mouth to speak and even the thought before the click of her tongue is too loud:
Dervish slaps as soundlessly as possible her hand against Faa’s lips, shakes her head no
pulls her with both hands further through the tunnels until the sound of water.
Melissa Leto, understory, acrylics on manuscript draft, digital photograph, 2024. Courtesy of the artist.
Triarch
Triarch wasn’t in the middle of a forest it was all forest, then, no middle
Faa dreamt of Dervish. Dervish could be a fever dream
after the kill she fell, right? alice’d her way through a tree trunk
was now inside a cypress? could feel vibration of ocean
looked up ursa major canes venatici draco
her eyes telescoped enchanted taste of blood in her mouth
helicopters overhead behind her scent of salt, opened her mouth
a hand clapped against it, finger sharp tipped metal, smeared the blood still wet on her
Faa could smell every twist of Dervish
aspen of Dervish blooming pear of Dervish fresh water of Dervish
could smell the — haven’t you ever met someone like that?
could smell what you could do to each other without speaking? what was speaking
anyway? here is the holographic skylight helis are loud but can’t see us, really, safe
what was safe? safe world. safe word. outside war.
lynx canis minor barely lit a world
of shadows Dervish led Faa to water
when she stepped in Faa watched Dervish become, unbecome, alchemize: waterwheel.
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the vibrations of their voices disturbed the sleeping hairs of nepenthes
though no awful consequences would occur, she would not wake to eat them,they
felt in their bodies what was needed for nepenthes to be rested for a state of devour.
Melissa Leto, welded room, understory with acrylics and petals on draft, digital photograph, 2024. Courtesy of the artist.
INT. TRIARCH: NIGHT
the room might as well be a terrarium. their bodies look like woman bodies but the way their
shadows turn there’s no way of knowing and, at times, even, one slides through the form of a
wolf while the other, if your eyes aren’t focused well enough or perfectly focused, maybe, the
shape became a waterwheel if the lightning struck their shadows spinning
the way they could touch each other like all the glitter through time and space surged through
Faa’s hands to tendril through Dervish’s body while Dervish’s body split into a thousand vines
choreographing Faa’s frame multiplicity of knots to roll against
underneath them what you can call the floor down of moss petals rose
feathers blue jay fur rabbit fur bear coat wolf bodies against bodies
against bodies time through time through time and all the words: people want the story
to be what happened. can’t you imagine, even in your wettest imaginings, a world
in which we are finally free enough for the story to be weightless?
the story is Faa’s mouth against Dervish’s neck the story of Dervish with the rope of Faa’s black
galaxied ponytail in her hands, pulling so lovingly, locking her off by way of her own tendrilling
the story of Faa eating Dervish’s heart through her cunt that soft that wet, that holy
mouth where she sang the word yes chanted the song please
you don’t think enough has happened already?
you don’t think they’ve lost enough already?
where do you think the desire to become through gnarling first swims?
haven’t you ever seen the human creature spill out of itself? swarm itself?
to see them let go like that their arms becoming unlimbed
their legs unhinged their entrails rubied starlit pulsing
oxygen in their blood bioluminescent shining underneath skin
portrait of dust mineral marrow swelling desire to become by unbecoming
inside of a hallowed cypress tree
all the stories ever designed for their erasure
composted by the wet of them humidity of them honey and blood of them.
Melissa Leto, d;w compost, story compost layered natural materials, digital photograph, 2024. Courtesy of the artist.
nepenthes
what they always failed to notice was variation failed to praise it failed to consider
how we mirrored how we refracted how we could prism each other
what nepenthes taught us was to cocoon during the filtration process, the becoming
to let go into the mouth of nature, to trust her to break us down how we deserved
nepenthes rooted in a single place
nepenthes grew tall as the cliff Triarch rooted through
nepenthes. waterwheel a spinning Dervish
when Faa stepped in the water she didn’t wolf or plant, closed her eyes
let the body sync into choreography of Dervish swimming
let the body fall into the mouth of her waterwheeling
let the body fall out of its own marrowed history
let the body fall out of its namings spectrum of alchemy boundless
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desire beyond body because look what they did to our bodies
look what they did to our bodies look what they fucking do to our bodies
fuck our bodies fuck our bodies up fuck our bodies out of themselves without prism
bury our bodies within our bodies name our bodies classify our bodies, display them
everything lost to naming everything lost to naming every word a tiny box to die in
what ever was love and what ever was family and what ever was story and what ever was a tale
what they’ve done to us for so long to waste ourselves like this to waste ourselves retelling
what they did to our bodies they will stop doing now.
we won’t release their heads from our jaws.
we won’t take their heads off the walls father
don’t they always say that’s someone’s daughter but not for the reasons you’d think
let’s not pretend we’re farther along than we are 2024 4078 1864.
Melissa Leto, direct address, manuscript draft, acrylics, flower petals, digital photograph, 2024. Courtesy of the artist.
INT. TRIARCH: NIGHT
Dervish’s palms open to Faa’s mouth what do you think she is offering
what do you think they are drinking what is dim when there’s a moon
what is dark when ursa major pulses what is weaving: four hands
through the scent of tallgrass, willow, vetiver, musk, peonies, cedar
it’s almost as though you’ve never seen creatures touch each other the way they are as though
time and history had told them no so many times the word yes unorbited their bodies until then:
can you imagine? every time you thought of it, a race of wire cutting some part of you
through the scent of sweat, cypress, vulvic, salt, peaches warm on the ground
what Faa was drinking, oh honey, story of erasure right out of her life line.
in the dim Dervish followed the glisten moon tongue cunt yes
canes venatici blinking in and out four hands weaving new story.
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dervish; wolf
once upon a go fuck yourself: no girl bodies terrorized here. if that’s what you’re here for,
if that’s what you’re hard and wanting for i know the language you wish i’d give you
that story is over. a girl had to grow through the down
of woman skin tendrilled parallels into some scent of wolf desire to bleed out
of herself that story of a man’s elbow drawing back opening the chest for better access
to her heart, all the better to eat you such poor storying of terror
why should we be so afraid of the wild interstice of sharp and soft
of the possibility of being devoured hasn’t anyone ever eaten you that way?
Melissa Leto, gone for good, paint on manuscript draft, flower petals, digital photograph, 2024. Courtesy of the artist.
EXT. TRIARCH: BARELY MORNING
the room is mostly glass, wood, vine, cliffside.
the wind comes through, lifts Faa’s hair. there is no ceiling.
Faa wakes, eyes upward: no stars wrapped in a blanket of moss
and fur: bear, wolf, fox, rabbit, feathered blue by birds long forgotten
altar of their bodies
Faa hears the waves stretches fingertip to toe curl.
her hair black silver its own net and waves
pulled back like rope over one shoulder
she knows she is both alone and Dervish isn’t far, can feel her, smells
the air for her body compelled upward then down the rooted staircase
Dervish on the last stair, wet, water up to her knees.
Faa touches the crown of Dervish: feels ocean life there feels holiest swell of alive there
can taste the animals alive in her hair by inhaling touches her hand to Dervish’s shoulder
Dervish’s finger across Faa’s knuckles, then a pull
Faa takes another step down
slides one leg thigh across Dervish centers her gravity there
drinks from her eyes watches her mouth
lips teeth without kissing, watches to see if Dervish parts her lips
takes a breath makes a sound she’s not unphased
but she doesn’t let on easily and yet body to body speaking
FAA
i’m going to taste the story
from another realm
of your body
now
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Melissa Leto makes art near the Salt River on Hohokam land in Arizona. Her/Their work has appeared in Bloody Funny Zine, Shrew Lit Magazine, Tom Maxedon’s Word! podcast, and Write On Downtown. Their wordmaking weaves joy, grief, and trauma while infusing the interconnectedness of alive things on planet earth with queer love in realms of hybridity. They have an MFA from Northern Arizona University, are the lead facilitator for literary arts non-profit Revisionary Arts, and an editor for Rinky Dink Press.