BY MARY MAROSTE
You stayed limp, the year your trunk split from
bearing too much fruit. I think you were tired &
sore & wanted to make it easier for deer to eat from
you. My mother insisted on saving you, but your
flesh grew around the screws my father used to
mend your spine & they’ve become rusted, bruised
lungs. At night, I hear you whispering to the ground
– lovely thing, you must smell of warm petrichor.
Your branches, eaten away by beavers, littered the
beaches for weeks. It wasn’t ideal, but you were
happy in this place. Little water bugs & tadpoles
lived on your fingers & arms, you gave them names
& miniature pools. In this small world, you didn’t
mind the lake slime on your body or the holes eaten
away from your fingers. In this small world, these
Hooked through the eye, you flared your gills & cut
my hand open. In my mind, you were dangerous,
even though in the sun your jade scales glittered &
relaxed when my father released you back into the
Somewhere, deep in the cold winter of Lake Superior, water is
smoothing the large basalt slabs into pebbles &
if you dip your head under the ice, you can hear these dark
hellebore pebbles softly & quietly clicking.
Mary Maroste is a junior at Western Michigan University. She is majoring in Creative Writing and Communication Studies. She has been previously published in Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Mochica Review, 3288 Review, 30 N, Winter Tangerine, Sink Hollow, and Jabberwock.
Her chapbook Blueprint for a Home Without Tampons is forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press in 2017. She is from Houghton, Michigan, but currently resides and studies in Kalamazoo.