not a tree, i am a stake
planted into melancholy earth.
planted into melancholy earth.
lacking roots and branches,
i might have been a plank
i might have been a plank
in the floors of an old house
scuffed by the bare feet of children
scuffed by the bare feet of children
and oiled periodically, covered in winter
by a carpet from the east.
by a carpet from the east.
i might have been a dusty skid on a scaffold
erected to clean a monument,
erected to clean a monument,
or refurbish a ruined synagogue
whose god still roams the camps.
whose god still roams the camps.
i might have been a strake, pushing the seas
for men heartier than i am,
for men heartier than i am,
a length of me cut away and hollowed as a flute
to blow songs to a future lover.
to blow songs to a future lover.
none of these fates have been mine.
those made rigid in their own sadness,
those made rigid in their own sadness,
they have no fate at all,
a fate worse than fate.
a fate worse than fate.
the desolate do not learn
the hard truths of destiny,
the hard truths of destiny,
and those too vain to follow joy
never split the earth’s indifference.
never split the earth’s indifference.
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(poem / atlanta 2020) (photograph / philadelphia 2019)