Analysis of Cherry Trees

I don’t write about flowers
or what Neruda says spring does to the cherry trees

I write about the hand that slides silently out from under the bed
The disfigured appendage
that rises, bodiless, to eat my dreams
and deliver me back to where I don’t belong

I write upon the salient fringes of the fathomable
offering form to the cold heaviness chasing me up the stairs
always just on my heels
but never quite close enough to catch me

Tiptoe spreader bar strappado
I write of the shadowed craving that lives
just beneath the sweetened edges
of unremarkable desire – the candy-coated darkness oozing
between our legs summoning us secretly to descend

Softly, gently, inaudibly enraged
I write about the woman rising inside of myself
unleashing a torrent of dismembered yesterdays
upon nameless never were gentlemen
destined for an impeccable damnation
that has been so delicately and exquisitely prepared for them

And yet, even still…
I find myself at the foot of a cherry tree
writing
wondering what the spring has in store for her