The Chase
I know that you are afraid.
The first tree to sing this April did not know reflection the way you knew vanity glass
It only knows the roar of the creek below
Screams, indistinguishable from door slams. The pull away
How should a tree know the sound of a first kiss?
When all it sees is the space color once lived.
You are looking for a house to buy– one with a yellow door.
When you were young, you swore there were wolves in your walls, that it was their breathing you heard over your head. I know this
because you used to whisper it to your mother at night, when her hair canopied over your salt stained pillow.
I know this
because you say it’s easy to laugh about now.
I’ve noticed this about you– when we laugh out late, on the street corners, you hush us
as if terrified of waking the sun.
Like you’re in the backseat of a boy’s shitty volvo at seventeen, condensating the glass
Parked in a driveway below a house with one lit window
And a yellow door.
Have you seen yourself
In a tree in April
that wonders why it is the only one begging to see its roots again
To fit into a smaller body?
You’re tired, and there’s no time, no room to think about all of this now. I know
Don’t let them tell you it’s not terrifying.
But be gentle, please
with the creature fogging the walls of your skull
with its young breath.
