Tree-fort |
by Samantha Seto

The first was my body, snug in its cap of fur
I smell of yak butter and chalky dirt
mixed with the frozen bite of wind.
Silence. I imagine I climb down our tree
Covered in myths of our childhood,
swing with the autumn leaves.
My whole life, I’ve read living signs:
Disease batters bodies into disintegrated apple.
Fir cones await fires to catch their human ribs
falling into a green, thick forest.
We always liked to blow the candles out.
Our friction in our hand burned when we grew older.
The sound that scissors made in our child hands
while crunching construction paper aches.
Even cracked, pop-out ceilings lose that style,
like a cereal freshly drowned in milk.
Now the maple trees are everywhere,
invading the hickories and oaks.
Samantha Seto is a writer. She has been published in various anthologies including Ceremony, The Screech Owl, Nostrovia Poetry, Soul Fountain, and Black Magnolias Journal.