I am living a life. I will love it regardless.

There is no other option. What I feel is love.

I’ll run my hands along tree skin, feel it rough

or smooth. I am the only one who knows why

this tree grows crooked. Its leaves make shadows

on my skin. I sprawl, spiral, die. So what if I called

it a baby. Instead of a baby, I put a tree in the ground.

I dig a hole with my hands. My fingernails. My stone

lungs. My jackhammer heart. I massage the roots.

So what if I called it a baby. So what if it could have

had his hair, his perfect brows. I return the dirt

to its hole with one hand, hold the tree’s thin stalk

steady with my other. I hold myself at the ribcage.

I am the thing stitching myself together. So what.

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