Willow Tree Child

Willow tree still stands in the side yard
beside a big old house full of memories
of perfume, sexy lingerie, joy, smoke,
even after so many heavy snows,
thunder, lightening and wind
tried to strip slender leaves off tangled
branches that sweep our ground like long tresses
of a beautiful elfin Goddess.

Papa had checked out long ago
with a self inflicted shot glass blast to the head.
Mama is always scrubbing walls still-
has taken up painting but everything comes out
splatter, splatter, splatter.

So we run, my sisters and me
across fields of united states
avoiding towns and Movie Theatres,
but they are everywhere! Movie stars
and posters of Movie stars everywhere!

We sprint through tall grass grazing blades
with open palms like a breeze over Black Hills
only to discover graven images of dead men
blasted into a gray mountainside. Rock
faces glare down at our indiscretions.

Going south in a hurry worried
Mama may discover we have absconded
with our traumas intact; taken flight
hands, faces, brains unwashed.

Dirty behind ears we go to find Human Beings
where everyone is a Poet speaking in tongues,
of hidden languages no one understands
while truth runs through these bodies we wear
glowing red cutting away night and terror
like Mama’s hot knife slices bittersweet
dark chocolate.

My sisters plant flowers in an orchard
with Basil, Thyme and Baby’s Breath
then Willow Tree speaks to me
about when the air is sage smudge blessed.