On Vulnerability

My mother peels the bark with a wrinkled, sunburned hand.

She works quickly, until her hands ache,

until she winces when she stretches and contracts her slender fingers.

Yet she keeps pulling,

her thumbs caressing the soft spots of the sheath.

Don’t stop when you’re tired. Stop when you’re done,

she always told me.

She continues until the body is ripped of its clothes,

until the trunk is naked and smooth. She closes her eyes,

resting her fingers against the torso pulsating with life, with motion, with space

it cannot fill.

You are strong, she whispers.

She listens for a reply. The body is scraped with lacerations,

scars that shave through the wood, almost deep

enough to draw blood. Deep reds taint the chestnut,

bruising the tree. It does not answer. You are strong. The noise shatters

through the forest space. Her voice is louder now,

as though she is trying to startle the body into motion.

She pounds the wood, bony knuckles colliding

with the bark.

Her fists bleed dark red

in rivulets down her palms. She backs up a few steps and runs,

slams herself against the tree, kicks

it with calloused, bare feet, tries to break skin.

Can we get through this? she screams,

and slumps down onto a carpet

of pine needles, one arm draped around the trunk.

The soft canopy of faded red leaves murmurs a response.