They Tore Out Trees Where We Used to Walk

deep roots intertwined, inextricable. The living reach
through the dead, entangled by what was and is. They

reconnect, invisible communion beneath angled
branches and clusters of fallen flora. Transformation

means leaving to return. Destruction is absence, but creation
carves hard into each ring. We make space, then use it.

The arterial creek expands, uninhibited by trunks. I’m
stuck, imagining that lifelong network, splintering apart

underground in the frantic redirection of need,
the rot, the healing, the fresh wound, the cycle.

When will you feel different enough to call me back?

Second Grade

When Dad says, “bipolar,” I’m young
enough to imagine a brain-shaped
snow globe, full of cold, white bears,

running in families, bursting through
my mom’s skull. They say I’m next.
I won’t be frozen this close to the fire,

no matter what melts when life burns
into a wonderland, a fun house of
adults, jumping out to scare me.

My parents say this is different from lying.
“Sweetie, we’re just being private.”
My biggest smile stops the questions, but

I’m powerless, too old to wake up wet
from a nightmare again. I am only alive in
her hospital room. I say what Mom needs

to hear. It feels natural, it’s nothing. She
trusts me alone when I say I believe her.
I think there must be something I can do.

Delicious Dreams

My body is a chef, making meals of
what my mind can’t understand,

stirring together every kept secret,
explosions of flavor, desire and fear.

I don’t blame my body for
withholding full menus.

My mind devours.
It makes my body sick.

In sleep, my mind is offered a taste,
a sample, a little something to savor.