​THE ROOTS ARE HORIZONTAL LADDERS

across the path

climbing one rung to the other
my feet find their way

my son is a stranger to me
his eyes are giant pools
of wet stones.

I want him to be kind.

How can something so tall
sway and keep its balance?

The birch lean together
in their turning shade

I find the urge to
categorize everything
the names of trees and animals
what we mean
to one another

red gooseberry
red of the fruit that opens yellow
cleanly broken under a wheel
red that is swollen and spiny and ripe.

Every day you get closer to leaving me
and it is as terrifying
as finding
a cardinal wing.

(First published in the 2014 Winter Issue of The Iowa Review)