by Nick Young
The gravity of branches
dipped to earth,
a slow obsequy of shoulders
freshly-hewn, stripped
from the trunk—bare flesh of white
wood fresh on the red brick path.
A look, an exclamation
buried in bone-dried skin,
not too low, not too deep
to find. The fear
of shallow, wooden graves heavy
with water; my image, frozen
in the mirror.
From my window I watch arms
once high now broken—tiny tears
deep beneath the skin grown larger—
ripped from the trunk, strewn on the ground,
defeated. May my fall
come quick and sudden.
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 