Rows and rows of conifers
Dart past the window
Each one a riddle
A dream construct
Around which gifts
Are posthumously attached
*
I press my cold hands
Between my thighs
There’s an ax in the backseat
And a felon with a volatile temper
In the front smoking
With the window rolled down
*
The air tastes like
Aluminum and cremation
I am excited, cautious
And entirely insurmountable
The numbers on the white signs
Are shrinking along with the wares
*
We stop at the very end of the lot
The trees are dressed
In disheveled skirts of green and brown
They are beautiful
Stoic even as the blade comes
Swooping down
*
My father and uncle
Fasten the tree
To the roof of the car
Money exchanges hands
Poverty is contagious
No one suffers alone
Eventually the backs
On which we stand
Collapse
*
The tree farm is owned by a family
Incomprehensibly they invite us for dinner
I have no idea if we’re related
They are probably cousins,
I have scores of unmet relatives
All over the city
*
Their home is modest
As far as I can tell
It’s mostly a kitchen
All the other rooms
Are dark and inanimate
The counter is filled with food
Collard greens, biscuits, fried chicken
Miscellaneous chicken parts
That smell internal
*
I take a seat and tuck in
Too self-conscious
For conversation
But grateful for the food
And company
*
This was a difficult write for me as my memories are all very sketchy!
mindlovemisery 