after Rebeca Mae’s ‘Tree’

Slowly at first her skin
became rough when
their bodies entwined
in the bedsheets. He left
every morning with pine
needles in his beard.
Returned every evening
with sawdust in his pockets.
She watched him split
wood for the fire
in halves, then quarters.
She shuddered at his efficiency.
He begged her to cease
sprouting buds beneath her skin
and standing still
with arms outstretched in the yard.
She refused
to stop dissolving for him.

One evening he found himself
     in the living room
               splinters
                              ravaging
      his palms,
boots seeped
in pools
     of sap.
Branches
fallen
 everywhere. He
buried
what wouldn’t burn.
In the spring
a sapling took root.
The leaves quaked in the wind.
It held her voice.