Another Tree Parable

You smell like apples and hang me with your laughter. There’s this absence rooted in me. Low-hanging fruit. Something to pick since produce dreamed of dangles out of reach. Bruise me with a gentle press of your thumb, with a simple word or two meant for something more pleasant on the eyes and teeth and with juice dripping off your chin.

The story of the tree comes to mind—giving more than she is herself. What is the moral in this moment? A sapling worthy of its cutting down, made fable and lore out of confession. Here, where I draw the oozing X, is your mark. Gouge me with your axe. Speak me to splinters when only moonlight is your witness; then share your acts and intentions with the world in order to become something presidential—and I, burning quietly in your hearth, made into a modern parable.