To be devoured
by a tree, first
you need to reject everything
you have ever believed,
or maybe the tree comes
first. Ariel forgot
the painted scene- ice
frozen on skin, a living tomb
of dead water molecules - she
had folded up and
placed in her pocket. And with
a split lip and black eye,
she cries: “This is
my point of exit.”

“Does anybody here remember Sara Lynn?”
“I wish I did, I wish I could help you.”
“She must be on fire. I’m so afraid of
the brightness that consumes all things
dying.”
“Breathe. Give me your hand and don’t
go into the light.”
“I’m afraid of the light.”
“As well you should be.” It is the light
that burns our eyes and makes us forget
who we are, lulling
us into submission with static
and cycles, broken
promises and half smiles.
This ground is sacred, so if
you’re needing inspiration,
you need to know

you are half way there. Somebody
moved the graveyard under
your house, and suddenly
we are reminded of Saturdays
10 years gone, when we would comb the neighborhood park for death
and avoid the clamp of leeches
on our groins, we were such fools
and kings and queens.

“Is there anybody out there?”
“No, this house is clean,” and the dead
erupt from the earth and
break Ariel’s –remember her?– wrists
with forced handshakes and readings
of her pulse. 90 beats per minute,
Why so nervous, sister? It’s only death.
She remembers the man with
eyes that were once pearls, his words:
“Would you like
to learn to fly.”
She cries, scraping trenches in the mud
as she is dragged down, down,
down, afraid to scream for help, of
filling her prescribed role, helpless
and weak. Down, down, down…
“Would you like
to see me try.”

And now the world is a monster
eating my eyes from the whites,
inside,
“Why are you running away?”
Remember her.

Remember her?
She won’t let us forget.

As a baby I was bitten,
some foreign spider with
poison for blood. My body swelled
as my veins betrayed me, carrying
and depositing death throughout
my fragile young body. Father
had to slit my throat

so that I could breathe.