The Seasonal Body
Indebted to death, I made my body a burial ground
For children’s dreams, spectral firefighters, cops,
Ballerinas, acrobats, just plain moms and dads
Presiding over dinner tables with kids silent as dolls,
Good pups lying underfoot. Springtime passes; raw
Buds strengthen into blossoms, pollinate, leaves
Gather dew and sunshine, are plucked by lovers,
Deciphered like fortunes, shredded by trembling hands.
From the dreams comes a tamarack tree, cold and tough
As snowshoes, but bursting with yellow needles and
Tiny cones. I am alive to seasons, sprung from a lake
Of dried wishes, food for porcupines and hares.
As I age, the tree turns metallic, a rust-proof street-
Light with bright halogen bulb, illuminating sodden roads,
Basketball hoops, glistening bicycles left in yards.
From the distance, coyotes howl, but this is no
Fairytale; children sleep, and I guard night for them