|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
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