Sawing the Mesquite
       

For months it's been an eyesore,
the giant mesquite,
mistletoe-choked, dying.

When the tree men arrive,
buzzing saws tear into
the blackened branches.

I wish I could cut
away my own blights
as easily, my urge

to snap back at my mother's
careless remarks, the day
I slapped her when I was

a teenager, raging
at her question about
where I'd been, with whom.

The blackened tree
leans to the side
as it grows smaller,

its shape distorted
like a tumor shaved
by the surgeon's knife.

The buzzing.
The falling.
The carrying away.

As if the misshapen twigs
and dark wings of yesterday's
mistakes could flutter away,

the spider webs of nightmares
disappear,
my angry strikes at my mother
tossed into a pile

and swept away,
a rinse of fresh green
emerging, forgiveness,

even though she's gone now,
a possibility
in the shining air.

Tweet
Copyright © 2021 Geraldine Connolly All rights reserved
from Twelve Mile Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission