by Terese Mason Pierre Refat Ul Islam This poem is a path This path is a circle This circle is an animal, is many animals, watching you from all sides as you squat in the forest This forest is never letting go of destiny, persistent in its oral tradition This tradition uses stones instead of hands, would have you warm them slowly before drawing blood This blood darkens your smile and stains your teeth (how you hate uncertainty), is indistinguishable from dirt This dirt is eve