There was only one tree On my Grandma’s nine, flat acres. Dried, she’s a torn photograph of ebony lightning Sprouting from thin strands of spun gold. The twigs broke, shattered into the sky, and I thought I could fix their holes with A tree house.
I collected fallen sticks from the tree’s shadow, though They were knotted in nature’s yellow hair. I traced their brittle canyons in my fingertips Until I found a cavern, fit for my thumb nail. Inside the wood was styrofoam, Marrow, Disease.
I climbed into the dying tree’s arms For awhile, she cradled me, but a crack became an amputation. Her crying could be heard Like a text, “Don’t come home.” The limb I held, or the limb that held me, Collapsed like an old dog’s hips. I severed my branch on the family tree.