the orchard grew excellent*

The truth is in the terroir, soil

with terror in its rot, battles

over sod. These trees cling

with blackened trunks, bear torn,

above this lake shimmering silver

in the Valhallas. Pit houses covered

with pine needles are the memory

of a place that was never mine.

I want to forget treachery, betrayal

and grief—pack away all those lost

trails, starts and stops, my self my own

worst enemy.  I have to forget the stars

will always break apart with me, warmth

in the edges of our bodies. The trees grow

across the burn line, a faint shoot of green

grainy in the charcoal.  My friend is not like

me, but we crossed the same waters and drew

similar conclusions. I found the room

to drink my tea and open a manual, uncode

my heart. My ancestors perturbed by recent

events would like to lay low for a moment,

recall the attempts to diminish our history,

erase us from textbooks, steal our home,

but no, we are the words you speak, our story

imprinted on yours, so fall from the sky

like the stars, like my laughter or apples.

*Lucie Brock-Broido, “Posthumous Seduction”