8 years; or, on watching the death of a child.
by @donovan
the familiar grip
of a chainsaw
a quick snap of the wrist
awakens the beast
hungry for a
visceral vivisection
violent, vivid, vital in nature
and vying for more.
hand finish what
fumes and metal teeth cannot
pulling the young body of pine
to stoop and kiss the skin
of the earth.
i traced my fingers
across the edges
of your spine.
i counted 7.
no, 8.
8 rings.
8 years.
what is my primate life worth?
how many rings are etched on my soul?
what color is the sap pouring
through my veins?
could i ever be worth a tree
could a tree ever be worth me?
my confessions rain
like the needles
from your hair.
i know now
that Nature's love
exists without man.
my mother always
told me that
god rested on sundays.
i always thought
that was funny.
instead, she weeps.