~after Adrienne Rich

 

Time takes hold of us like an updraft,

feeding a storm’s anvil

 

flashing white with hammer strikes,

 

cloud a giant Man-o-war crackling

lightning beneath translucent skin.

These days drag their fingers

 

through my cheeks like a chalkboard.

So slowly I am hollowed out,

mined for resources.

 

This flesh, an eggshell,

to move is to fracture fault lines,

to chip and flake like old paint

 

on a porch swing. I bite

my nails, I wait for the scent

of burnt ozone, the raised hairs

 

bristling with static and nervous chill,

the oxidized nuance of rain,

coaxing me back into bed.

 

I feed the sky smoke,

I am the charred trunk

of the tree of Life.