Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Issue Forty-three
April 2017
 
Two Oaks
Sarah Blake

I remember them as impossible trees-roots perfectly under the ground. I have a maple tree now and you can’t grow
anything at its base, such a wreck with its knotty roots, and I see the way the animals burrow there, in that patch
of dirt. But my childhood backyard is a flat field of zoysia in my mind, hardly touched by the two trees, as if they
poked through a plane of existence, connecting one plane to another, the plane of sky maybe, or something before that,
just there, just so. If I could plan a dream, I would walk myself up one of those oak trees and touch that next plane.
I would pierce it as perfectly as the tree had pierced the plane of grass. I would get all my nutrients from below it
but excel above. One unfairness to pile on the others.

About Sarah Blake

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