i am the dying tree rooted firmlyin place with no thing left for me clinging with cold limbs to the greedy dirt there is life yet elsewhere, not here i am undeserving. hollow form snaps under strain, to uproot would be fatal, the ground a hospital bed cover me and keep me safe. a disease in the roots spreads along the tree
o to cut out the dis/ease
"Fighting"? More
like a sparring match.
My sister
and her fiance
scream and beat
the gorilla breast,
with virulent words
and our ancestors'
bleached bones,
while we explore.
Poke and prod and
with precision.
Unified in
our convictions,
the blows we strike
are used to diffuse
the strain of our distance.
Once the wounds open,
we shirk the patches
and mend from within --
always to further Us.

— The End —