Poetry

A Dark Poem

When the gnarled oak finally fell,
our son was sleeping
in his crib for the first time.

A branch hit the roof above 
our bathroom and I was sure
it was war this time.

I waited to see tanks
and men in green,
filing down our street
with guns in hand
like the rows my daughter
keeps on her bookshelf.

Little plastic men in 
varying hues of 
baby shit green
protecting her cassette 
tapes, are you too young to 
know what I mean?

What I mean is, the tree 
hasn’t fallen yet. I imagine
our future so often these days
and it is always dark and 
something is always broken 
or breaking.

Do you hear me?

We are broken or
breaking.

Do you see me anymore?

I watch you watch her, just
a hint of a twist of the
neck, and I imagine it
snapping
like the oak tree.

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