At the Oak Trees

Start early. A few tries are needed to assemble the sky.

Colorsoft morning, a chalkdream takes shape—
            smeared layers melding, not hazy but waking

limbed bodies curled in newfound morning draft,
            each one an invitation unopened,

but it’s the evening trees I know to be true.
            Auburn ink scrawled on azure under sun

the sting of early winter pulsing root through my hand
            like sonar, like blood beneath soil

grooved tender texture muscle—
            exhale. Survival is barkdrawn in silhouette.

My body is the body pressed to bark,
            a lifeline, a balm.

How heavy we move through the motions,
            how light we sift from branch to branch—

Dandelion wisps, ash on air.

There Aren’t Enough Flowers

I lay flowers on your body.                     First, carnations,
            their swollen blooms cover the gash, your chest ripped open.

Nasturtiums on your abdomen, soft petal press gently in folds.
            With this pressure, I—

I should have begun with the peony. Petal on the tongue or blossom pressed whole
            in the slack gape of your mouth—citrus and jasmine ease the twitch of nerves ending.

Butterfly weed to balm your throat, watery vanilla sap—will this restore voice?

I bring honeysuckle to your joints—dislocated shoulder, wrist, splayed left knee.
            At your pelvis, green tendrils frame cracked bones I cannot repair.

How many bodies can fit in a field—creeping thistles and wild violets curl around them,
            embalmed in lilac’s bloat, perfumed rot.

Lisa Ludden is the author of the chapbook Palebound (Flutter Press, 2017). Winner of SFLitquake’s 2019 Writing Contest, her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in the Colorado Review, Red Wheelbarrow, Epiphany, and elsewhere. She lives in Northern California with her family.

Published February 28 2022