Caryatid Chords, Yellow of Yew

by Taylor Micks

When a tree is four thousand, or three,
or six, or two sometimes the heartwood
cannot bear its housing and so unwrinkles
what congests around its core. And not
weight, or convincing, I think, but time’s
summative didoes that buckle the thing
to lean out of itself and bodily construct
from earliest widths of rings, what from
earliest ringed widths it knew to be true:
How should I not be housed again? And
Again? There are no scales. I have ensiled
my truth of you, parent rock and sister
mossen silt. I know that if the tree sleeping
in the window, who holds all that I hold
upward, would diserect and dive, swim to
river’s run, down. No mother, no matter
what, energies of tides displaced limbstroke
after limbstroke, that the trick of the otter’s
heart, would belong to his as well—as it
belongs to mine. He would not tire or grow
cold, but lust ruthless for the bottom.
It is my hope, when this has come to pass
that what is left of life, finally of humanness,
is the misreading of silence—how it rings.