~ after Linda Pastan

I have not yet learned that lesson
of abandoning the world, of letting fall
the various claims we make on each other
as though it were our right as humans. If I 
were a tree, I might be the one that hasn't 
quite shed its overgrowth of foliage 
despite the blight worked by heat, the blasts 
fired by winter. Sometimes I feel like a small 
insistent animal pushing its head into your lap, 
circling your ankles, angling for a crumb 
of forgiveness or love. Though the moon
floats in the sky as if it's worked free 
of its own tethers, still I feel the tidal
pulse go through me as if it were 
an umbilical cord uncut. And in the dark 
I tense, anticipating the sterile blades'
descent, fearful of the moment you
might turn away, wanting nothing 
more to do with me. 

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