Thomas Gillaspy   © 2014 All Rights Reserved

Always you will
            After Terrence Malick’s Tree of Life

Always you look like me.
You never did  in your own body.
But now, tucked deep
within the safety of something outside of yourself,
a knitted maze of sunflowers,
you look only like that which houses you.
In the cellar, you rage,
fire in a deep forest of dead wood.

Always you are the summer storms,
a buzzing of hindsight. Always
you are the morning birds breaking the day.

When you fell under the waves as a child,
I felt a familiar tug.

Always you are footsteps
outside my door. You eat what I eat,
you are the blindness that turns red to blue.
When the doctor tells me my body attacks
itself, I know youʼve planted roots,
the oldest maple that robs water,
killing the possibility of other trees.

Sara Kearns
Copyright © 2014  

Sara Kearns recently received her MFA and now hopes to resume publishing Siren: A Journal of Literature and Art, which she edited between 2006 and 2010. Other poems of hers can be read in print magazines and in the online journals Anti-, elimae, and Wicked Alice.

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