as others grew up. I was attached
as a continent until I broke off
and became an island. Every man
I gave my hand held a chisel. Carved

a piece out of my middle. Now my head’s
hung to my chest. And my feet are at
my knees. I don’t bend to sit. I’m bent
so, I fit with the bottom crawlers. I’m little

as a bonsai, ornamental and
dwarfed. I morphed into a living
corpse. Drinking my days in a purple
haze. Once you’ve lopped you can’t

reattach. A broken branch can’t
hitch back on the tree. It rots on the
ground, covered by leaves. Not missed –
just a stick