2010
06.16
06.16
Whenever I come here, it comes to this:
My trembling hands caress the wound we inflicted
on the ribs of the secret oak on the 8th of May.
Crushing flowers with our backs
in the tumultuous years of adolescence,
I wonder where you’re on your back now
and who’s getting to know your nature.
Our branches have been hacked apart
with the nomad axe of your Lieutenant father.
We did our P.T. under a blanket of shade,
with no one around to bark orders
or make us push up when we wanted to stay down.
You dug out trenches with bare hands,
ripping across my back with periwinkle nails.
I wish you’d never cut them
so I could still be a part of you.