Ann Keniston

SYCAMORE ODE

Permit me this
                         redundancy. I dug
inside my bone to find
the right material, a fastener or dark.

Let me join me
              to myself
right here. And release
my unremarkable
heart.
In myths, the fleeing girl
becomes a tree, the sacred tree,
the tree of patience.
Again

the sycamore has spilled
its bark over the ground.

Here is where my invisible
begins.
At the scar or border, lip,
my shore. My little wound has been
sewn up
with thread
.
         And look: the birds

 are also here, invisible but known.
Geese pass over in the night. Here

is where I was torn and then
remade
. It is
both raw and smooth.

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