Lorrie Ness

Felling the Sycamore

These are the final stats.

Ankles blistered and oozing,
from a single brush against the sumac.

The shovel’s handle splintering away from the metal.
You told me not to pry. Even then, I leaned
with my body weight — until
I heard the crack.

There are my leather gloves stiffened with dried mud,
and the final strip of wood severed with an axe
after the chain slipped its blade.

Because I forgot the oil. Because I didn’t bother
to tighten it down. Because I was running
top heavy,

the wheelbarrow, now tipped on its side, is a reminder
of the things I couldn’t carry.

And you, backing away

because the trunk was hollowed by carpenter ants,
and you would never concede that this tree

could be held aloft by a trunk returning to dust.

Back to Issue X…