Tree of Life

By BRUCE BOND

After Terrence Malick

 

When the dinosaur, at the dawn of mercy,
lifts his hoof from the throat of his rival
whose pulse you see, whose eye tells you seas
have parted into the ken of separate selves—
that’s what haunts me most in the film.
My friend too feels it, the fragility of earth,
the after-movie dinner that I owe him
suddenly long in coming, before my birth.
And as we sit at our table on Legacy Drive,
we watch the traffic of couples and talk
for stretches without talking, merely alive,
exposed to dusk that eats its sacrament
of grackles, as if the onset of the dark
submitted each. To all the hunger in it.

 

Bruce Bond is the author of fifteen books, including For the Lost Cathedral and The Other Sky, as well as four forthcoming volumes. 

[Purchase your copy of Issue 10 here.]

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Tree of Life

Related Posts

Map

DANIEL CARDEN NEMO
If I see the ocean / I think that’s where / my soul should be, / otherwise the sheet of its marble / would make no waves. // There are of course other blank slates / on my body such as the thoughts / and events ahead. // Along with the senses, / the seven continents describe / two movements every day

A sculpture bunny leaning against a book

Three Poems by Mary Angelino

MARY ANGELINO
The woman comes back each week / to look at me, to look / at regret—that motor stuck in the living / room wall, ropes tied / to each object, spooling everything in. She / comes back to watch / what leaving does. Today, her portrait / splinters—last month, it was only / askew

Aleksandar Hemon and Stefan Bindley-Taylor's headshot

January Poetry Feature #2: Words and Music(ians)

STEFAN BINDLEY-TAYLOR
I am sure I will never get a name for the thing, the memory of which still sits at a peculiar tilt in my chest, in a way that feels different than when I think of my birthday, or my father coming home. It is the feeling that reminds you that there is unconditional love in the world, and it is all yours if you want.