The process of
dying requires trees.
Has someone told you
yet about how they can burry
a seed in your ashes, so a tree can grow
a tree of your dust. I imagine biting into an apple
full of dust. This is Ash Wednesday memories; thumb
to burning forehead. I want a confessional large enough to fit
the whole burning star. I want a god big enough for me. A tree
strange enough to take root in molten body. You animals with you
sense of ritual. You animals with your peace and dirt and planting. I
should plant a stone in my mouth and call it tongue. I should tear a tree
out from the surface but there are none left. I see their ghosts behind my eyes.
This is me, the sun. This is me the sun whose father planted a pine tree in the yard.
This is me, the star wishing my death could be ashes. A quick removal by wind. A quick
handful of after. I turn the planets over in my mouth, each giving in to dust. I pretend they
are still seeds, that there is still a place left out in the darkness where I might take the roundness
and deposit it, watch it grow, ache with all haunting. Bark twisting with skin. Roots deep in dying.
What should a star know of foliage? I had a lover who didn’t know I loved him. I had a lover who
tucked a red flower behind her ear once. This body is a burial for all the bodies I have not grasped.
I don’t want a tree, I need a tree. A birthmark of shade to curl up under. Permission to be small.
I expand. Take up space. Planet under tongue. Sense of choking. Flower under tongue. Tree.