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POISONWOOD TREE, BY ​KASEY JUEDS


Again, the white line of trail
dividing the marsh — a seam,

a scar. Again, your leaves
in the trance of breeze, hushing

as if to soothe a child. This time, I
am not a child. This time, I know

your name, and the red ache
your sap raises on skin. How you bloom

in a different season, blanched
as a bride, or ghost in some story

simpler than this one. You bloom
and fruit and feed the rarest

pigeon, white crowned — though
there is no queen here

but water            and sky
and the distance

they conspire between them. Here, signs
warn not to touch, not

to stand beneath your dripping
branches after storm, the frantic

rains that draw the fish to deep water
and summon the wading birds

to feed: white, white, and black
and pink, they know to stay

steadfast. For them, no question
of how to return. Some voice asks

to be let in, some voice your leaves
keep trying to shush. You
​
were never meant as shelter. The water
and sky reach for each other, and nothing

says not to want, nothing says
not to be afraid.



NEXT
Kasey Jueds is the author of two collections of poetry, both from the University of Pittsburgh Press: Keeper, which won the 2012 Agnes Lynch Starrett Prize, and The Thicket, forthcoming in 2021. Her work can be found in journals including American Poetry Review, Crazyhorse, Narrative, Beloit Poetry Journal, Ninth Letter, Denver Quarterly, Colorado Review, and Pleiades. She lives in the mountains of New York State with one human, a spotted dog, and many houseplants.
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