Story of a Tree

I loved this tree.

South of San Antonio,

west of the heart,

growing in the ravines

of the Pecos River

inside me, down across

the Rio Grande and up

into the Llano’s staked plains,

tree of memory, tree of ghosts, tree of rain—

under birdsong whispers

you cradled me in your canopy.

When I was a baby, I stroked

the soft hair on your leaves.

You were my first true church,

and when rains came

our whole bodies shook

and shimmered with God’s words.

You let me bury

all my secrets in your dirt

and sleep in your altar

as we drifted through stars.

Forgive me, Tree, for humiliating you.

I kicked at your bark. Spit on you.

Tree, I cut you

and carved cruel words

on you in reverse

in my rough, crooked cursive,

with a rusted green knife

I stole from a bitch,

scarring your sacred skin.

I burned you with a lighter

shaped like a cowboy boot,

left bird dogs tied to you

for days on end, let drill sergeants

in training from the nearby base

lash out and practice on you.

I let belly-gods, plug-ugly bruisers,

devouring cowboys and butchers

stuff themselves into me,

hog-tie me whole and slap me

around as you watched.

When I laughed and made

animal sounds, I scared you.

I chewed you out. Made fun of you.

I used toxins and poisons

to make you immaculate.

I wanted you perfect.

I nailed a no-trespassing sign

and a big security light to your side.

I sold pieces of you off.

I abandoned you.

I abandoned myself.

All around us the underground world overflows with love.

Season after season you return,

sap rising up from your roots,

unfinished, always becoming.

I defended against love

for as long as I could

until I couldn’t.

You no longer have to hide your self in your deepest self.

You no longer need the ones you thought you most needed.

I know I am not good

at this, or anything really, but I’m trying.

Roll on, roll on, roll on—

Tonight, I’m wearing a red dress,

under a man’s honeyed mouths and tent.

Your red flowers open and crown

and cover us in a Sunday of pollens.

And when I press my ear

to your thickness,

to your heart, I hear:

bells, bells, bells.

Source: Can I Finish, Please? (Four Way Books, 2016)