December grows a tree inside me –

waters it fitfully, gives it little sun

and a hunchback, a gnarled personality

from which deep green grows,
emerald drops falling down

from my lungs to my belly.

Leaves settle in my stomach

and rustle there, alone.
I will turn 30 this year.

I will turn 17 next year,
and 13 after that.

My hair will grow long again,
braiding itself behind me as I run.

I will stumble in high heels again.
Marbles will fill my mouth.

A small spot will grow on my rib.
A branch will ask if it can poke out

and see the world. And I’ll remember
the tree inside, swaying

like a tall girl with weak ankles
and no balance, held up

by her long hair reaching towards the sky,
to catch a snowflake maybe.

Catherine Martin
Latest posts by Catherine Martin (see all)

Leave a Reply