Subscribe to our Newsletter

 I am sitting

 at a desk

 made of oak,

 holding a white sheet

 of what used to be

 a different, taller

 version of the forest.

 We were not satisfied

 with the first death—

 the sudden bite

 of the steel,

 the heavy shudder

 of the trunk

 hitting the forest floor.

 We required

 a second, slower exit.

 So we took

 the timber to the vats,

 washing away

 the green spirit

 with a caustic bath,

 until the wood forgot

 the bird’s nest

 and the rough texture

 of the rain.

 Now it lies here,

 flat and pale,

 staring back

 with a chemical face

 now taught

 to hold ink

 instead of sap.

 I pick up a pen

 to save the world,

 drawing a line

 across this white corpse

 to speak

 for trees,

 the only thing

 in the room

 that has died twice

 to bear

 all I ache

to pour.