Rotten Trees

The murmuring leaves tickled the tree
with a curious need for wanting.
They billowed; she spit out
pretty, bitter jolts
of eighteen years of wanting
(or eighteen years of bleeding.
The voices of crying leaves
are hard to push in drowning).

But you cut down that tree,
and I buried those leaves.
And that wood –
It kept us both alive.
It kept me warm
and kept you sweating
beads and drips
of bitter wanting.