Friday, 3 August 2012

A chainsaw’s kiss

I can place my hand inside your trunk. 
Push it deep into your dried-up heart, 
or  with both hands grip your ragged sides 
and pull you apart; hear the bark part
like burnt flesh peeled off hot concrete.
I come to stand in your shade; see
damage done through oxygen’s consumption. 
It is not my fault though I feel 
accusations in every dried, bitter leaf.

First it was the fingers, then nails, 
knuckles and hand -  as if your chest 
had been stabbed by the Roman’s spear.

At the fork between two great branches, 
running, like dark lightning, up from the ground,
my hand is free to enter the darkness between; 
the skin feels insects feasting, their antennae in chaotic dance
signalling there is no defence when sap runs dry.

If I leave it long enough, will my hand
become amber-encased; unable to be restracted,
worn inside, a frozen amulet to the bitter end?

Sick of the sight of your struggles, the way you creak
when the wind rises, I have ordered the wood choppers. 
they will soon arrive, costumed, gloved, booted up,
with ropes, spikes, chainsaws and the hungry mulcher.

You, my dear, will be rendered into tiny slivers, 
that will litter the ground like the fallen carcasses 
of cicadas, and cover things still alive in my garden.  

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