They are coming for my trees,
the invasive Lagustrum stands,
the dead and cracking Hackberry elm.
“Trash trees” she called them.
What the hell do I know?
This is not my land, but I am learning:
spring is summer fall is spring winter is two weeks and
summer you just stick to the shadows.
East-siders don’t cross the river
for milk or coffee,
west end won’t cross the highway
for gin or saddle soap.
I am learning
to seal boxes between visits,
to keep secrets
in separate pens.
I heard you cannot go barefoot on the other side
of the limestone ridge, fire ants and
flint, scorpions, rattlers,
prickly pear.
We keep St. Augustine soft with
sprinklers on timers.
They have come for my trees.
My fingers on wavy glass
read the chain saw vibrations.
Eyes closed and still I see
metal sharp slicking layers
into mulch.
Just like that time you called,
talking just loudly enough for that girl
(table two)
to hear (if she wanted to)
the things you planned to do to my native lands
cowboy mountain lion sharpening claws
on my yankee limbs.
Gone still I can see you
fingers that fingers that fuck if I know
who you are just cross that divide
name the trees
show me the place the rope broke
and you got away with barely a burn.
