the unselfish (sycamore makes a wish)

The Unselfish (Sycamore Makes a Wish)

You ask me the names of the trees and the children all at once

And I say

That is an Alice in pigtails

Underneath a Vine Maple easily holding his leaves at the tips of twigs

As if the riparian canopy is really made of so many weightless green stars;

this is a Ficus Benjamina, afraid to put roots too far below the surface

and over there Theo, with a milk mustache and chocolate cake crumble soul patch.

But I cannot tell you

the species of vine

closing around my throat

when you ask me to defend my heart or

expect me to apologize for the color of my skin.

I don’t know the name of the boys who taught you how to hate me

when you don’t understand. But you do.

In spring the songbirds suddenly remember the warmer winds

and call them by name.

Rabbits teach the grass to leap higher and bow to the sun.

Tiny frogs swab the river rocks until they shine.

There is no bird to call the deeper sigh from my chest and carry it

across the borders.

My heart is jealous of the leaping

Of softer creatures that tumble lithely

and never break.

I lie and wait

among the blades and fallen blossoms

expecting the tinier frogs to attend my cheek as they do

the stony countenance of the rivers.

All the while the resilient

Spring fingerling leaf buds

Of the crowded Sycamore tree

silently gesture

toward the gathering clouds.

She coaxes and offers a familiar shiver;

Her flowers swing and tremble

As she coyly allows the cool caress

Of the approaching storm

And we recognize a grown man leaning

a naked shoulder against her ashen thigh

learning

To trust and love

mottled bark,

and stark instincts.