A stranger counted the lines of my sectioned torso,
then with fingertips coated in resin, dialed.
No one answered.
A second stranger took a turn.
I don’t remember the details but it went on like that,
strangers dialing, the ringing echoing back,
no one at the other end.
Awakened from the dream by the noise of grinders,
I see it for what it is: my tree’s root in its own bed
being pulped, tree
from whose limbs squirrels sprinted onto the roof
to announce daybreak, curator of playlists
that held my toddler in swing under its epicurean green.
Tree that stroked the attic window
to sway the girl away from harm,
sway her to stay, unloose the noose.
I watch the truck carry off limbs
still robed in green, watch the vacuum
aspirate all evidence. I never learned
its species, genus, or family name.