Amy Lowell Prize, selected by Mary Buchinger
The Tree
I am trying to tell myself the truth.
—Kate Weare, choreographer of Garden
1. [man in the darkened theater]
Above the dancers, a tree hangs
from the rafters, upside down,
an uneasy truce
between humans and not. If I told the truth
I’d say I’m a selfish animal
that digs its den deep. My words
are shaped and tidied. I don’t dare
face into the wind.
2. [the dancer]
The upended tree,
rootball wrapped in burlap at the top,
hangs above me. I can feel
the strain of branches
pulled towards earth. I’d feel better
if it were in my reach,
the smooth coolness of leaves. Later
when everyone is gone
I could seek it out. But I don’t. I change,
go home, eat a sandwich, take a bath,
wrap my feet. If I told the truth, I’d say
I wasn’t meant to move so freely in the wind.
I’d say, plant me,
hollow me out.
3. [the rigger]
After rehearsal, we let it down with pulleys and ropes, its leaves sweeping the boards, then haul it upright and onto the contraption of planks and wheels Eddie built to hold it. It weighs 600 pounds. We tow it out the side door, down the ramp into the parking lot where we water it and leave it to rest until it’s time to set up again. Usually I sit on the planks, lean against the tree, have a smoke before I go back to work. Not sure what kind of tree it is, but I think I hear it breathe. They’ve ordered a fake one to take on tour.
4. [the tree]
a story takes a long season
through the roots
and so many listening
but you stole me
and bound me up
uprooted me into your confusion
of desire and dominion
each of you speaks
as if everything is up to you
while I grow
silent in my small earth
light rain a man leans
against me
my only communion
5. [man in the darkened theater]
If I told the truth, I’d say I have more need of the tree
than I have of the dance, its roots, its gravity of dirt.
It’s not the tree’s job to be an example of anything—
that’s only what I wish for
faced with its extravagant beauty and defeat.
Susan Jo Russell is a math educator from Somerville, MA. She holds an MFA from Warren Wilson’s Program for Writers. Her poems have appeared in Bellingham Review, Chautauqua, Peregrine, Passager, Slant, Borderlands Texas Poetry Review, The Comstock Review, and elsewhere, and she has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her chapbook, We Are Not Entirely Abandoned, is published by Finishing Line Press. She co-directs the Brookline Poetry Series.