Issue 1 Cover Poecology

Issue 1

 

Ruth Gooley

 
 

The Oak Tree

 
 
The current of the earth
races through me,
oozes, sticky, from my pores,
greens at my fingertips,
gives me light
the earthbound
cannot know.

The woodpecker shudders
in the bleakness of my dropping leaves,
my acorns, the squirrels
that pouch them away, like jewels.

Below me, the mole sinks
into the shelter of her nest,
quivers in the dank,
moon-dripped night.
The coyote,
eyes hard as bullets,
tracks her scent.

A crack,
teeth snap on bones.
Blood,
hot and sweet,
soaks into the ridges
of my hungry roots.

I breathe with the sage,
I birth catkins and beetles,
I splinter in the winter’s storms,
endure fire, thunder,
and, at the end,
I will rot,
become
the heavy
stillness
of dirt.