Mahogany
I press my ear against the bark of the highest safe
where a knocking comes through
from an older world. I know it’s just
the woodpecker, but one day the tree will open
its eight-hundred-year-old doors, while
the long leaves reopen their stomata – portholes
to green chapels I could crawl into
and claim sanctuary. But the men below me
won’t wait much longer, even though I can mute
the chainsaw and listen to the bees nesting
just above – their hum deep as earth’s
core roiling with fire-queens
laying molten gold. Air-flowers are safes
holding ambrosial loot. Here they come,
the combination crackers – one ghost moth, then
the scarab beetle. Once,
hummingbirds unlocked portals of petals. They pointed
their bills at me, as if I could yield
my human form. I’ll watch the mahogany’s
cream panicles attended by thrips
coated in pollen. Surely a whole orchestra
could be carved from this giant – violins,
guitars, even a grand piano could be hewn
and out would pour the dawn chorus.
Pascale Petit was born in Paris and lives in Cornwall, England. She has published nine poetry collections, four of which were shortlisted for the T.S. Eliot Prize. Read more.