The Birches

Sandra Beasley





These woods teem with runaway brides,
birches shedding their white veils.

It must be a dream -- you are here,
taller than me, walking far ahead,

arms swinging with momentum.
Ferns curl into fists at my touch.

Moss weeps glycerin. You lean your palm
to a bulging tree trunk and even from here,

I feel the throb of fungus under bark.
Black flies buzz my ear. In a downed oak

a sack of bagworms pulses, gestating,
blind to how their home has fallen.

I walk faster. I run. This isn’t my dream.
Now these woods rise with their dead,

birches tearing off their white shrouds --
hunting down those dumb lovers

who didn’t check their breaths before burial,
who mourned, who moved on.

The birches shake dirt from the dark roots
of their curls. They sob from spongy trunks,

How dare you leave me? You’re nowhere
to be seen, Tom. They speak for you.