By T. N. Brownstein
Bearing the dragging arms of the tree
Out of the scattered salt
We haul it over the plowed pavement
To freeze or rot in the white woods
After dressing it up and stripping it down.
Is it less sad or more
that it was dead to begin with?
By the first warm rain I’ve already aged an entire year.
I sink and rise precariously through the swampened fields.
And on the road are the remains of many smeared snails
Never imprecated to know
That the wheel of time was hurtling towards them.
The survivors crawl around their dead,
Looking only forward.
I remain white as an exposed babe while the corn and soybeans brown in the sun.
The heat sears the edges of the world.
It curls in on itself as an old photo caught on the lit end of a cigarette.
The foggy mountains are wreathed in earthen secrets
whispered out in a smoke of cold rain.
Every leaf-clogged puddle is a mirror and
my destination is a beacon that blinds me
to the future.
When winter comes again
I take to the woods
and lie in the snow
like a dead christmas tree.
What gets me to my feet again is the knowledge that
Dad is tending the fire and
Mom is cooking dinner.
T. N. Brownstein (he/him) is a poet, writer, and translator currently based in New England.
Although currently unpublished, he enjoys writing in multiple genres, including science fiction,
horror, and magical realism. He holds a degree in Greek and Roman Classics from Temple
University, and his work is often inspired by history, mythology, Jewish culture, ancient Roman
poetry, and ancient Greek theater.
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