Inside the Sycamore
You can crouch down enough to inch in,
then stand, stretch onto your toes, reach up
until your joints are filled with air.
If you press outward, it’s all damp sponge.
Feel around for shelves holding a weightless soil
that reflects the dark.
I have taken its innards into the light, marveled
at their oranges and blacks. Always the threat
of lacebugs, the tussock moth,
canker fungi that enter through a wound.
There are scents released to warn the woodlands,
help them thrive. Each time I pass, I step inside
for a brush of stillness on my skin.
When my family is with me, we take turns
putting our bodies back into a body.
We can’t stop ourselves, foolish and alive.
Tara Bray is the author of Small Mothers of Fright (LSU Press, 2015) and Mistaken for Song (Persea Books, 2009). Read more.
“Inside the Sycamore” has been previously published in the Hampden Sydney Poetry Review.