As we lie supine, like a flight of stairs (2025)

Migrated back again

To the warm soup and that clanky upright

Sat down-wrong in my seat

Chin on one knee

Usually my {}-left

Barren trees

I winged over this time

Mulled about which two of them

We might be—

I would think we are contiguous, no?

My snakes reach out towards you, no?

Internal erosion and 

Winter’s visible protest

You are a beach and

Me: a mountain

So I reach further {?}

You too, with your dead-numb limbs

I, Medusa

Anyways

Trees do-not migrate, do they?

Spoke to my dad

I mean actually talked to him

I almost like him when it’s 10:31 p.m. and he’s

Drunk and red and teary-eyed

I told him how Winter is treating me

And how I can’t seem to shake anything

Let alone a leaf

Maybe it’s worth the emotional disparity, him.

And the fetish for the trunk (as a vertical concept)—

I stare down at mine, asking

If he likes to whom he is allotted

His forked tongue only flickers—

Right. Trees can’t eat soup

Let alone anything. Or migrate

I think then that I must be a-(l)-pine

The way I make you do for me

But from where does the make-pine grow—

From where the sap is warm,

From where everything is clunky and straight

Me:

Bent like a willow

Con(i)fer-ring that you must be a birch

With all of your vertical lines

And your eyes

And the deciduous {}-white

I won’t meet