The Tree As It's Being Cut Poem by Jupiter Rose

It is as it should be:
I manage a
morsel of impuissant gum

the axe fleetingly whistles
it's regrets
but neglects to see it

It could be a tear, you see, or the
virtuous wound of the denounced
martyr, but now its just gum

awkwardly sticking
to the exposed member of this
bling garish steel

Still I can't deny the inevitability:

I have through connected
rings a way into the universe

(a reluctant Oracle: PTSD flashes
of my body tied up, shaved into
oblivion)

But maybe its right for these limbs
to be used, goddess or whore
becoming whatever you entice

it to be, opening up in gaping welcome,
an oscillating entrance for the
multitude

or the discerning blade sizing up
my flesh, scavenging exclusively
for artful gains in my delightful

corpse… a choleric eye, hostile
hands, a body circumspectly in
gesture of deviance

It is as it should be:

Symbiotic hands whittle away
slivers of death, tenderly
sandpapering errant shards
from my now raging
living face


to once again behold
the seasons