“Bleeding My Trees”
As a child,
I explored the wonders of my green and brown backyard.
The fruit trees—especially the peach, plum, and cherry
bled golden orange and purple black saps
from puckered wounds which I would, of course,
with twig, finger, and tiny metal antenna.
No matter how deep I punctured, it bled out no quicker.
The dark black bark that flaked up around the gash
was, for me, some sort of scab. And I would peel these back,
expecting the tree to yelp— as I would have.
But they never made a sound. And the funny thing
about torturing one that does not make a sound—
we lose interest and we walk away. And once, one day,
as I walked away, I thought I heard my victim sigh relief—
but it was merely wind rustling leaves or perhaps a bird
watching me, thankful it was not the tree, as it gulped
another cherry seed.