Photo by John Morton

Outside, a tree, dried out & skeletal, moans. Dead
in spring. The roots can’t find water. It’s May,
the city isn’t greening anymore, & trees are sick
of the sun. Say the sky’s the sickblue of hospital
walls. Say her name as she coughs & gags in predawn
heat. She tried so hard to be loved she cradled
my head against her breast & cried until she had no
more fluids & sorry, I’m sorry, don’t leave me. Say
we never liked her scars, the riverbeds of sweat,
her skin, porous & delicate. & the flowers, wilted.
The tulips. The gardenias. The freshbright gleam
of stems & leaves, of used things fisting tight
to pleasure. Say we are postnature. Say we are
nurtureless. Gone in the smog slit through with light.