I AM ROTTING LOG OF WOOD
MARLENA CHERTOCK
not thin, healthy twig.
My branches creak and groan
under gravity’s weight.
My bark is full of termites
eating away my pith-cartilage.
I can’t stand a full day
in the forest like the other trees,
so straight, so tall.
A few minutes in the forest
and the fire ants start
chewing my bark
from the inside. I am rotting
log of wood, watching
the other trees hook up,
make tree babies.
But I’ve never had the bark
to ask out another —
a weeping willow or oak —
girl or guy tree, it doesn’t matter.
I don’t have the right textured
trunk, long enough branches,
brightly colored leaves.
I want the other trees to notice me
down here, close to the forest floor,
but I also feel strong some days,
without anyone else, the sunlight
running through my leaves,
birds in my holes, my roots
firmly in the soft grass.
I don’t need another tree
to feel like me.
I breathe out
my own amount of oxygen,
carve my message in my trunk.
∘∘∘