Hiding in a body tall and lean, 

designated a male, I was born 

in Zone Seven, a forgotten tree 

buried beneath a Bedouin sky.  

We won, but I know we 

lost the count of death.

One, two, three, four (+)

a million, billion more – 

They tell I had a mother, 

a seamstress who sewed 

headless animals whole 

again, my heartwood

back in place, a whirling  

threader of pith and bones. 

I sit some feet away

from a makeshift table

covered in dishes I’ve 

never tasted, water I’ve 

never drunk, bodies I’ve 

never met until today, 

a Tuesday in November.

I gather it sits seven

without the leaves, live

edge mocking the dead,

faces a pale blue, eyes

turning a foamy white

like warm sap tapping

a disremembered pail.

No longer wary of weight,

my burls are open, a virus

hungry for the newly born,

fissures prepared for a feast.

---

Laine Derr has published interviews with Carl Phillips, Ross Gay, Ted Kooser, and Robert Pinsky. Work has appeared or is forthcoming from LIT Magazine, J Journal, The Amistad, Full Bleed + The Phillips Collection, ZYZZYVA, Portland Review, Prairie Schooner, Chapter House, and elsewhere.