at that birch for years. Suddenly
betrayed, you took shears and
went at her.
With every thrust of blade
she would arch, shiver. Leaves
whispered prayers
or pleas.

Her sap tasted of some secret pleasure.
That of the apostle
erecting his own execution:
bent bough’s long moan
following sob
of silver coins in cloth,
noose’s embrace recalling
one sweet rebellious kiss
it is not. Who are you
to know such things? After,
you could not look at her.