Jackie Chicalese
Xylomancy
I sidestep tree branches fermenting in the still puddles of last night’s storm & return with my hands empty. You’re spreading logs to sun dry before the next bonfire, your body bent small by the strange kaleidoscope of your cells into a fuller bloom. We sit close as the wood dries to fissure slowly. Grains read like nodes of tree roots haunting with thirst. I imagine the roots ingrained in the tender soil of your neck, your throat swelled raw with this abundance. Once the logs dry I help gather them. A splinter lodges inside my thumb, a worry I will carry with me for months.
I’m OK, you say. I want to ask the wood for how long, but we work in silence.
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