and a hunchback, a gnarled personality
from which deep green grows,
emerald drops falling down
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.