On Bark and Memory

I carved our names in a tree’s fat thigh
before I left, before her face faded
in memory’s black underbrush.
She is broken, scattered

Like the little light that hits
the litter, the poisons, both
ivy and oak ooze in this.

If I return to the woods,
would I find her or the carving,
would I find gall or a sapped—
over wound? Can I cool the rash?

Image: Kenneth Concilio on Unsplash

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.