Member Poem

Whenever you pass through a doorway,

a tree pops out from your body.

I’ve seen you rub your shoulder

before spruce needles push through.

Sucker branches sprout from your ankles

and wrap around your calves.

Once, a bonsai maple, fully pruned, sprang

from your stomach, ripping your shirt.

You are used to this. You carry clippers

and a hand saw. I watched you

drag an oak trunk out of the coffee shop,

limping in pain. I don’t know how to help you.

This warm spring evening, let’s linger on the stoop

and study the river where ash and dogwood thrive.