“[once there was a tree]” by Erik Fuhrer

“[once there was a tree]” by Erik Fuhrer

[once there was a tree]

only one tree because the world had ended already 
                      (it was nuclear war 
                      it was the nuclear charge of the nuclear body 
                      that shot its dust into the sun 
                                      it was the climate that never stayed static 
                                      but whatdoyouknow 
                                      actually burned way too hot one day 
                                      because all the bees died 
                                            because 
                                                  of our nuclear honeymoon 
                                                  because of our 
                                                  swigging of honey 
                                                  because we never 
                                                  gave a shit 
                                                  about bodies 
                                                  that did not 
                                                  walk 
                                                  upright) 




the world had ended 
and the last body alive 
had to produce bodies
so it produced a whole colony of bees
                                    from its ears, nose and throat 
                                    and not before it had produced a flower from its spine 
                                           (an orchid I believe) 
                                           and that's not before a new sun had blossomed from its lips 
                                           and not before 
                                                          its body itself became that tree 
                                                          that one last tree 
                                                                           as its feet 
                                                                  rooted 
                                                                           into the ground 
                                                                  and eyebrows sprouted 
                                                                  leaves that were more 
                                                                  voluptuous and hairy 
                                                                  than any leaf you have 
                                                                  ever seen before 
                                                                  and then these leaves 
                                                                  produced a whole 
                                                                  population of slugs 
                                                                  and worms and apples 
   						                  and pears and also a lot 
                                                                  of tiny woodmites 



                                                                        
                                                                          and then of 
                                                                  course 
                                                                          me 
                                                                          at 36 
                                                                          I came last and 
                                                                  I am 
                                                                                 not a 
                                                                          voice 
           											
                                                                                 not a 
                                                                          word 
                                                                                 not a 
                                                                                 larynx 
                                                                                 not a 
                                                                                 squirrel 
                                                                                 I am 
                                                                                 that 
                                                                                 which 
                                                                                 opens
                                                                  when you knock it 
                                                                  that which is forever 
                                                                  36 
          				                          until 
                                                                  I am only a memory of 
                                                                  ash




Erik Fuhrer is a PhD and MFA candidate in English and poetry at the University of Notre Dame. His work can be found, or is forthcoming, in BlazeVox, Riggwelter, Dream Pop Press, Noble/Gas Qrtrly, and various other venues.

Category : Issue Seven December 2017 Tags :

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