November 2011 - Comments Off

Northeast

Hannah Kucharzak '13

It is the glade of dead trees that wakes my eyelids
and slur their film, each trunk like the stem
of a rose with its roots all brambled. The needles

are sticky on the ground; the light comes in patches
and rests on them like too-thin summer sheets.

The land is an animal. Heather fur surrounds the bald
underbelly, the most vulnerable, the most bizarre.
Inside, just trees dying at comfortable distances,
as men stuck up in tattered houses, unwilling
to submit to proper care. The last left to a name.

Azalea whistles on the outskirts. The sun presents itself
in bows of white, bending around pointed treetops,
generous with life. Yet the only life here is the slow

build of energetic death, the sound of my pulse
returning back to me in echos. Somewhere behind
my body, a tree cracks and I do not see it fall.

Hannah is a palindrome.

Published by: in Audio, Poetry, Volume 68

Comments are closed.