Tree Hollow
From the inside, the lung closed –
jade lips, amber wrists,
tucked under the wet day, a swirl
of oyster skin; roots imagined from the sea
where the bark frays and the rocks loom,
bent limbs skimming, and open locks.
Inside, inside – the nut grin, the hazel hair,
spider twinned with a dripping stare -
I feel the room bruise me from within,
damp smudges, my knees and feet –
a clinging roll to my cave; bitter,
sweet - the sap stung sisters mould my existence,
and fill me up to the brim with a hole.
It never told – the bending wood,
hidden amongst the wet day,
which swinging branch would take:
the green shifts of summer,
or the grey boned splint of winter -
each bewitching with escape,
each a twitch for the split trunk.
