And the Leaves, the Flowers
by Benjamin Cutler
She was the only person who left me a note about what type of tree she is—which by the way is a magnolia. (Ask her why.) -from principal’s weekly newsletter to faculty
So I did—ask. They’re fun
to climb, she said, and the leaves,
the flowers. I thought then
of how I had never climbed
a magnolia, never lost
my body in the glossy spearhead
leaves, the blossoms set in solitude
or pairs—as feathered and full
as resting doves. And I wondered
whether I could, still, now,
after long, lift limb to limb
and limb to limb. Weeping
willow—because I’m beautiful
and sad, I said when she asked,
and we laughed
because neither of us knew
if this were true but knew it couldn’t
be wrong. I have hidden behind
those summer curtains and stripped
yellow whips of their slender, shineless
leaves, been a smudge in the palm-
smeared paint. I have reached
and climbed into that spill,
that riverside sway: a bow
to water’s whispered prayer.
These languid arms have such shy
fingers: flowers that do not try
to look like birds,
or even blossoms,
at all.
Image: @tairen / stock.adobe.com
