By Alycia Pirmohamed
I wish you were here.
Not the whittled,
stinging version of you
one part lemon juice,
two parts hydroquinone,
but the raw
recently-split you,
composed of untranslated
alleles
and five-carbon sugars.
I know I did not
treat you well.
I made you a tourist
on your own landscape.
I transformed you
into an irreparable wound,
an everlasting
assortment of scars.
But the worst, I know,
was how I refused
the blood that fed you,
how I felled the trees,
fallowed the earth,
how I stripped a body
of its seeds,
and ruined bark.