The Trees, The Trees: An Extract
In celebration of National Poetry Day 2019, we’re thrilled to share three stunning poems by Heather Christle from her new collection. The Trees, The Trees is out today.
* * *
THAT AIR OF RUTHLESSNESS
here is the hand here is the hand on my face
it’s not my hand it’s a beautiful day again I
can hardly believe anything what about you who
are so frequently touching some part of the world
what is it you’re touching today when I touch the
trees the trees think man-child they are so
wrong but it is a human face I put on I am
hung up under this weather I am hanging on tight
to a swing when I go up enough I jump then I
am not touching anything then the world thinks
I’ve disappeared I am just having a little fun
not much fun at all are you sad did you touch
the world the wrong way everything is always
happening and not just for show I want to
show you something I don’t care what I want
you to look where I say
* * *
THAT LITTLE BIRD WAS NOT OKAY
I have been hiding for two hours behind your
idea of a theme park one giant teacup and a fence
nobody wants to tell you you are the top general
on the losing side of a war I started before I could
speak babies communicate with each other
using shadows and casual tumbles I love your
body I have to weep every day I don’t know
why it doesn’t help the flowers grow any faster
speed concerns me speed considers itself so
lightly it doesn’t look like thinking it looks like
a tangerine how many times will I blink
between now and the moment you find me not
here I hope some place I haven’t imagined it
is a lark to love your face so much and from
a minimum distance of ten to fifteen feet
* * *
AND YET I’M NOT A TREE
I have no relatives I can’t move therefore I am
covered in snow my inability to speak has saved
me from attending endless parties among my
friends I count the window opportunities
surround me and fame the famous sidewalk
the famous building everything is fine I do not
possess a license in this state or any I’d like
to cry out any in my sleep I never do never
sleep never turn around to watch the chimney I
do not know how to hold a rifle what birds have
for me is not respect
* * *
In The Trees The Trees, each new line is a sharp turn toward joy and heartbreak, and each poem unfolds like a bat through the wild meaninglessness of the world.
