The Tree

THE TREE

We didn’t plant it, but ours was the roof

it loomed over, so aggressively green

and always branching in directions

we didn't plan. We had thought ourselves fit

to take up the sheers and shape it 

to the space, but how quickly it got out 

of hand, knuckling up against the house 

and vining fingers over the fence

to involve the neighbors. Even

after we cut it down it wouldn’t 

let us rest, its thick stretch of torso

rerouting the road till we took

a chainsaw to its trunk, an axe to the rounds,

then burned till nothing was left

untouched by the ash. Even now,

in skins we washed till they shrunk

too tight for us, the occasional whiff

of smoke sets our own roots aching.