The Screens
The rain drummed violent and loud
against the bare glass of the window, since
I pushed the screens out when I was fifteen. I wanted to
stick my legs out and touch the cherry tree
that grows there. It seemed so close back then.
I saw where the panel fell behind the bushes and I let
it rust for months.
I wanted to pluck the plush leaves from those limbs
and bring them into my bedroom, where nothing
lived. I opened the window when it thundered
just to listen to the lyrics. I let flies inside,
and moths, and spiders.
I let my walls become
like the outside of the house.
I sang with sparrows all morning. I pushed the screens out
to feel what grows where I end.
In my sleep,
I saw branches unfurling out to me,
covered in tiny blossoms
dropping all over the place. I swallowed
mouthfuls of pollen and dust
and never coughed once,
and before I woke up
I saw the eyes in the bark,
I put my arms around the trunk
and held them there,
while we both
expanded outward in rings.