Oak Trees

OAK TREES

Her eyes go on for miles. Two muddy trails

cradled in a forest of oak

that beckon for me to follow,

yet warn me to stay away all the same.

Trees murmur softly as I approach,

ugly things, spiteful things,

before hushing one another as I pass.

I find my sister on the banks of a wide brown lake,

hands gripping the grass

as she leans over the water’s edge.

We study her reflection:

the face is distorted, rippling,

as if it were about to yell;

the body carries its chest in folded arms,

hugs its shoulders

like they might wash away.

I plunge my hands into the water,

hoping to drag her back onto solid ground.

They come out empty,

green with algae.

Lake water splashes angrily on the banks.

Cattails hiss in my direction: I am not welcome.

The trees close around her, push me away,

until I’m back outside,

searching for the face I know.

I’m standing on the edge of an empty field,

locked out by two gated eyes,

hands dripping stains on my white sweater.