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I want a god big enough for me. A tree / strange enough to take root in molten body. You animals with you / sense of ritual. You animals with your peace and dirt and planting.

A TREE

The process of

dying requires trees.

Has someone told you

yet about how they can burry

a seed in your ashes, so a tree can grow

a tree of your dust. I imagine biting into an apple

full of dust. This is Ash Wednesday memories; thumb

to burning forehead. I want a confessional large enough to fit

the whole burning star. I want a god big enough for me. A tree

strange enough to take root in molten body. You animals with you

sense of ritual. You animals with your peace and dirt and planting. I

should plant a stone in my mouth and call it tongue. I should tear a tree

out from the surface but there are none left. I see their ghosts behind my eyes.

This is me, the sun. This is me the sun whose father planted a pine tree in the yard.

This is me, the star wishing my death could be ashes. A quick removal by wind. A quick

handful of after. I turn the planets over in my mouth, each giving in to dust. I pretend they

are still seeds, that there is still a place left out in the darkness where I might take the roundness

and deposit it, watch it grow, ache with all haunting. Bark twisting with skin. Roots deep in dying.

What should a star know of foliage? I had a lover who didn’t know I loved him. I had a lover who

tucked a red flower behind her ear once. This body is a burial for all the bodies I have not grasped.

I don’t want a tree, I need a tree. A birthmark of shade to curl up under. Permission to be small.

I expand. Take up space. Planet under tongue. Sense of choking. Flower under tongue. Tree.

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