Witch Brooms
Some of us will not make it, expire singing
the same chord with rattled tongues
but don’t worry, we’ve signed our wills
burned our love letters—
water locust
Texas walnut
chalk maple
pyramid magnolia
two wing silver bell
Rip out their lungs, the tree managers
and climate experts, then like us they cannot
breathe. Grate their fists to pink cardboard
strike a match to their hair.
Tell them to stop salting roads
whole towns of deformed buds
welting and drying off, stunted
branch tips, witch brooms.
We can make up for what is lost
like a waist cincher. Small branches hanging
don’t whittle us
black cape and pointed hat
raise us like your own children
peeling like paper
leaves greened then yellowed
arms reaching to gather sun
Poem by Laurel Benjamin