by Dana Henry Martin

The tree is a tree and it has a soul just as the body does. —Rabbi Amnon


The tree is a tree and it has a soul just as
the body does. I touch its bark the way

I used to touch your hips, torso.
I gather scattered leaves and press them

in your favorite book because they are
of the tree the way your hair was of you,

the way your fingernails were of you, even
after they’d been cut off and discarded.

I water the tree and hope the water seeks
roots which in turn open to accept water,

the way we spent a lifetime learning to accept
matters of faith. I imagine the roots

being shaped like fingers that fan and grip
the soil, each one with a distinct curve

so they can be identified by feel
in the endless dark. When twigs fall,

I weave them into wreaths and hang them
along the road where we lived,

and all the way out to the nearest field,
so they might lead you to open space

where you can breathe. When branches fall,
I treat them the way I would your limbs,

lowering them into a hole near those that have
already fallen, shoveling dirt on top

in the tempo of a dirge. When winter comes
and the tree is bare I imagine your body,

its life turned inward. I tell myself the soul
is a soul and it has a body just as the tree does.

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Dana Henry Martin’s work has appeared in The Adroit Journal, Barrow Street, Chiron Review, Cider Press Review, FRiGG, Muzzle, New Letters, Rogue Agent, Stirring, Willow Springs, and other literary journals. Martin’s poetry collections include the chapbooks Toward What Is Awful (YesYes Books), In the Space Where I Was (Hyacinth Girl Press), and The Spare Room (Blood Pudding Press). Their chapbook, No Sea Here (Moon in the Rye Press), is forthcoming.