They chopped down the sycamore. I watched a man 
feed the tree’s weeping flesh to a grinder, flesh so red 
I expected bone to poke out white, accusing.
 
When they pruned the pine tree, they hacked 
the branches, leaving each one red on the end, 
welling with sap that fell to the ground like tears. 
 
I tripped over a stump by a campfire last summer. 
The gash on my shin was a chasm bleeding black 
in the dark. My flesh remembers that camping trip – 
 
cold rushing water, nights bright with stars, redwoods 
like gigantic buildings, my companion asleep 
at nightfall, and me in the dark, wet flesh weeping.
                        

A red boil rises
in the eastern sky to show
a film of ash on asphalt:
your wedding photos
your tax returns, the couch
you could not get rid of.
 
Like a timid snowfall
the flakes sift down:
your closets full of clothes
for each of your changing sizes;
a decade of newspapers stored
in neat columns in your spare
garage; a marriage worth
of Christmas ornaments.
 
When the wind is right
the sky shows its shy blue face
until the smoke returns
bringing with it your law books,
your socks, your brand new
king size bed.
 
Flames glitter on the hillsides:
This is something big,
they tell us. We are stronger
than you will ever be.
 
And they bring us their booty:
all those ancient phone books,
the magazines you had no time
to read, the Bible you held
at confirmation, your mask
and snorkel, your careful 
landscaping, and plastic,
all that plastic.