I
Today I realize—outside
of accidents, of course—
I have not been touched
in nearly three years. I
shave my hair, so not
even a barber invades
the isolation, shampooing
my scalp, stroking my ears.
I can’t recall the last
handshake, hug, high
five. What there is instead:
lack, a twin bed. Perhaps
the name of some plague
is tattooed on my brow,
a an age old Cain brand,
invisible ink reading “Quarantine.”
II
A tree stood at the edge of
a windless wood. Stunted,
crooked with scabrous bark;
rust-colored leaves permit
a latticework of light into the
shade below. Each leaf marked,
marred by pinhole lesions
left by larvae. Seen from below,
each lesion is a perfect circle
of luminescence, the desiccated
flesh of every one glows with
a thousand such stars. Each
a period, the end of something.
One fine afternoon, a girl—
plaited hair, all dirty knees beneath
the hem of a flowered dress—sits,
places her sweat damp back
against it, for respite, rest.
Slivers insinuate themselves
in soft skin, even through the thin
cotton membrane of her dress;
the tree cracks, splinters, when
faced with even her slightness.
Trunk topples and slaps the solid
earth, leaves sublimate during the
susurration of sudden descent. The
trunk all full of gossamer, in shades
of grey—not wood as she knows it—
a delicate, diaphanous webwork; scar
tissue left by endless repetitions of
some unspoken sentence, which
each leaf lesion brought to
conclusion. Umber dust plain
before her, the bark and trunk
just an empty husk. Hollow,
it was long-since deceased.
(2000)
