Almond
What does the earth think? the girl asks.
It thinks like clouds and sea, I answer.
To live is a habit we are born to
until torn away.
Even then we try to stitch air
to our bodies with prayer
or press them into permanence,
until they glitter
like dead stars.
The girl asks me to be her father.
There is a slot in my side.
She slips her hand into it.
The rib is warm, she says. This is untrue.
To lie is an earthly seed, cast from need.
I tell her, I am not your savior.
We stand near a creek that has roiled onto the trail.
Water feathers across my shoes. She withdraws
into dry weeds to watch. But the trees are wild with fear,
living now in the river’s heart.
What does the earth think? she asks again.
I am a ghost and she is weeping.
There is no blood on her hand. My flesh is cold
with grief.
Her arms branch upward, seeking solid air.
Her legs are roots hunting answers.
I hand her a stone and say, this is what you need.
She is silent.
I am not a habit, she tells me now.
She has grown up. She is an almond tree,
rushing toward spring.
____________
Originally published in Spoon River Poetry Review, 2023
