THE TREE MEG BOYLES
I did not
expect to meet
this tree today,
not her green
trunk—weirdly
green, must be
some kind
of mold—and
the growth
circled around
her, like hips. I
did not plan this
awful desire,
like being
moonstruck near
the ocean.
I did not think
this tree
would make me
remember water.
I’d like
to skim my
fingers against
her shore,
want to whisper
against her
skin, I am proud
of you for holding
on. I am trying to,
too.