Donna Biffar

 

Alone, We Drag Away the Remains
for Norma Hodges

Maybe the tree tired of being a tree,
tired of deer scarring the grass for its fruit,
tired of the fireflies pawing its arms.
You once saw it flapping its branches like wings. It’s gone,
the tree we gathered beneath years ago,
like poets, bending branches with no remorse
for the falling metaphors—and you

slicing flesh, white as a nun’s habit, seeing
god’s hidden truth in a star. Once the mosquitoes found us
we had to go. The air was bright as a bell, but
the soil was cruel. Truth is, we found no points,
no prayers tucked beneath the skin.
And the apples made good pies,
their kisses tart—which was proof enough.

 

Previously published in: Moon Reader and When Tractors Are Art (chapbook, Snark Publishing)