Where am I, tracing lines in the bark
of an oak, a name
I have yet to forget?
It wasn’t love, this
half-attempt, my breathing in
the dust, the fire ants
lock-stepping down
the trunk, down to the roots
below my feet, where I stand,
shaking a knife at the tree,
begging for peach schnapps
kisses, midnights
laced with the rubbery
smell of latex condoms
busted in the backseat
of my poor mother’s car.
There it isn’t.
Erased by red paint,
an X,
and where is she?
We were here.
I remember
standing here, my blue letter jacket
failing to warm her shoulders,
then I walk back
to the car
and now I’ve doubled in age.
Where did I go?
How many names
can a tree hold?
When does it
decide to let them go?
Kerry James Evans is the author of Bangalore (Copper Canyon).
Photo by Rob de Vries
