If I Were a Tree
I’d be a quaking aspen, he says fast
before another possibility can jump
onto his tongue. Because his leaves
will jitter in the least contrary wind,
as if the tree is always shivering
with secrets? Because his bark is soft
and bared to knives that score him
so he carries other people’s hearts
like a disfigurement? Maybe because
his narrow trunk must always bear eyes
judging him unholy? How can I guess
what it is to be the only boy who loves
another boy? In his neighborhood,
his congregation? I would have roots
that creep across the ground, he says.
His elegant hands no woman will hold
slip sideways to show me. Anywhere
I turn, I’d be surrounded by myself,
multiplied into a grove. I’d be so big,
the biggest tree that ever was in Utah,
in the world. And every single trunk
a little different! He nearly shouts.
I with my hips, my breasts, my alien
female exudations, I am a sweet gum,
taproot ten feet down, planted before
god and man in plain sight. So I say
nothing. I have no standing here.
Kristin Camitta Zimet is a poet, artist, and nature interpreter. The author of Take in My Arms the Dark, a collection of poems, her work has been published in journals around the world. Read more.