We had a penchant for trees, the two of us, in younger days. Filling paper cups with muddy water, two vestal home-makers Listening to the sky. Crushing berries and leaves between two rocks that likened marbled floors, ones I saw and tripped upon Long ago, when my feet were still unsteady. I made our nest from dented newspaper. Ones that told of oncoming boons. Wars. Insecticide. Making myself comfortable in the crook of your arm. My dearest sister. A partner in crime, if that were even possible. That tree was a hollowed brothel. Where birds found mates in all their numerousness. Where we found tiny skeletal feet: two squirrels in their last embrace. 'Such beauty in the throws of death', you said, and cried for those departed souls; while I mixed flowers, grass and stones in the corner, And blocked your wailing with the collar of my shirt.
© Eve Redwater 2012
I selected this post to be featured on my blog’s page at www.poetryblogs.org.