TREE [BLANKS]
By Judy Lea Steele
LIFTED – Listen. [ ] The trees also grieve.
breath of life above, rooted not weighted, rising into the sky, lungs for us all
singing in summer, chorus in a flaxen afternoon
humming in fall, mantled in hues of lavish flare
creaking in winter winds, barely dressed, chattering with hardy birds who stayed, patient in waiting
whispering in the spring, awakening to rising life, blooming
beings bound to earth and sky, a dichotomy, foil to gravity
These ancient,
ancient beings also
subject to nature’s
rage at our lack,
pinched care for
a world that has
lavished care for
us, fed, protected us,
breached her deepest
wells for metals,
engines, power
fueling our
civilization.
Ancient beings also
weaponized by roaring
maws, hurricanes,
stabbed through
assuredly constructed
protection, crushing
vehicular invention,
beings torn
limb from limb.
And their voices -
singing, humming,
creaking, whispering -
silenced [ ]
in snarling, howling heat,
fires unstoppable. Ashes
the powdered remains of green lungs,
canopied songs, flaxen afternoons, charred
chorus of scraping, rasping, bare bones blooming.
Gravity’s foil, dichotomy of earth and sky destroyed.
Who will sing, breathe for us, whisper secrets, bear the life of humanity if these are lost?
Who will mourn them? [ ] For we will be lost as well.
[Ahhhhh]
LEFTED – Listen. I remember [ ] waiting for Daddy.
Pink and purple psychedelic flowers bloomed and swirled on the tiny canvas case. A pink plastic handle that flipped side to side. Sitting by my left foot. What did I wear? Standing on the concrete in the shade of the open garage door. Standing with Mom. Awkward silence. Minutes ticking by. Her worried pageboy swinging across her face. Glancing down the street. My 35 pounds of quaking stilled, round eyes, a hiding smile, a good girl. A little performance. An act. After all the preparations.
shouted silently, spoken quietly
“I ‘on’t want to.”
bright, lilting voice, coaxing with a change of subject
“I know. Hey, le’s pack up your new suitcase. Look how pretty! Come on, help me fold your clothes.”
“Okay.”
“Take care of your new suitcase now.”
obediently, half-heartedly
“I will.”
safe hug and kiss
“Le’s have a biscuit before you go. Want to?
‘yes’ nod
“It’ll be no time Sugar.”
And it wasn’t. Because once again no one came.
I have two memories of actual visits.
Down a steep hill. Maybe a gravel road. A scary, strange metal trailer in a sea of other metal trailers. No trees whispering. No blooming. No bird chatter. Just the sound of cars rushing on a nearby road. Heavy, creaking door with splinter sharp metal hinges clanging open. Darkness. And finally, dim light. A sea of shaggy maroon carpet stretching into more distant darkness. Lightless. Musty.
I wanted to cry.
A little brick house in the city. A porch. A tall, large woman. Bright red hair. Speaking loudly in different English. I didn’t know what she said. Two girls who didn’t like us. An angry grandmother who spoke only different words. Everyone else spoke different words. Except to us. My brother, a fierce tiny boy with a sun-bleached crew cut and me. I don’t know what I looked like. I was a very small body. It was hot. Flaxen afternoon heat dripping down backs in the depths of a Georgia summer. Afraid to ask for a drink. Standing around with the two girls. Awkward silence. Walking to the store. Large, rising trees whispering. Outside, a tall machine full of green glass bottles of familiarity and relief. I stopped.
“I’m thirsty. Le’s git a Coke.”
one pair of unsmiling eyes speaks
“We don’t have money for Cokes.”
an offering
“Mom gave me a dime.”
“We can’t get a Coke.”
a beat
tiny sun-bleached fury erupts
“She can have a Coke if she wants to!”
I don’t remember what happened. I don’t think we got Cokes. We went back. Daddy was there. Alone in a room. In a big green stuffed chair. A dark room. Across from me. He was far away. He didn’t speak. The grandmother spoke to him. In different words. She was still angry. Something was wrong. He didn’t speak.
He was [ ]. He was alone.
I wanted to cry.
Smaller still, before the dime Coke and big stuffed chair, before the shaggy maroon carpet, before the arrival of a fierce tiny brother. [ ] Vague. Shadowed. A haunting.
I huddled with my Mom in her bed.
loud banging, roaring maw
“Suzanner!! Let me in!”
silent, barely breathing
banging, howling
“LET ME IN!!”
I wanted to cry.
BURIED - Listen.
The crowd was large. The people were tall. Not singing, humming, creaking, whispering. Silent. Staring. Suddenly the woman with bright red hair burst out. Wailing. Screaming. The crowd parted.
A [ ]. Around a large, tall, loud woman and a small, knee-high, quiet girl.
“HE LOVED YOU SO MUCH! HE LOVED YOU SO!”
I looked up at her. Open mouth, large teeth, stretched face. Screaming. Silence fenced the [ ].
“HE LOVED YOU SO!”
A big performance. Dramatic act. Gesturing scream. A little performance. Tiny act. Hiding smile. Good girl. Embarrassed. Afraid. And suddenly Mom was behind me. Her hands pressed my back. She took my hand.
“Come on Sugar. Le’s go.”
(click photo)
His family chose a flat rectangular marker, no larger than a book. In the back corner of a graveyard, now almost hidden in the encroaching wood. With the voices of trees.
LOFTED – Listen. [ ] There is breath above grieving.
high in the lemon green leaves of a swaying, breathing tree
rooted not weighted, rising into the sky
singing a summer chorus
humming, creaking, whispering
secretly aloft, myself
being bound to earth and sky, a dichotomy, foil to gravity, foil to tears
On a
summer’s
eve
long
years
later,
not so
long
ago,
I
burst
without
warning.
Unexpectedly.
[ ]
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“Why did he leave us?”
“Why did he [ ]!” “Why did he do that?”
Hiding smile torn. Limb from limb. Dichotomy destroyed.
I sobbed.
[Ahhhhh]
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Judy Lea Steele is an interdisciplinary poet, playwright, and performer. Her work has been shared and recognized in Chicago, Los Angeles, New Orleans and the National Playwrights Conference in Connecticut. Most recently, an excerpt from her developing chapbook, Rooms in Mind, is a poetry finalist in the 2024 Patty Friedmann Writing Competition. She is a 2023 MFAW graduate of the School of the Art Institute in Chicago. New Orleans is her soul filling home. And she talks to live oaks. www.judywomanofsteele.com
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in is free
By M.I. Devine
(Click on photo for video)
You stare at phones, you stare at screens. Once long ago you stared at me. So how now can I make you see? I hungerstrike for your newsfeed.
A poem should not meme but be Like that Polaroid you took of me. Our names we carved into a tree. #itsnotyouitsme
Is there really nothing For me to do? I believed in nothing. Did it all come true?
Life’s a stream, you Netflix chill. I hate to scream, but soon I will. Who cut the lights? It’s hard to tell, Said the turtle to his shell.
I don’t want to live alone. I don’t want to live alone. The bee-loud glade, the buzz of phones. Be with me, you are my home.
Is there really nothing For me to do? I believed in nothing. Did it all come true?
Is this what’s meant by freedom? That you don’t really need ’em? That you could up and leave ’em?
You’re so free. Look at you. We’re all looking at you. How’s that working out being so true?
I’ll be your man, you’ll be my bae In a house of clay and wattles made. We’ll live long the livelong day. What else is there left to say?
The factories one day let off steam. The soda jerk he serves ice cream. We skip stones across the stream. Our children won’t be you or me.
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M.I. Devine is the author of Warhol's Mother's Pantry and cofounder of the art pop project Famous Letter Writer. Currently releasing Dadamama (i) and Dadamama (thou), Famous Letter Writer has been featured through venues like American Songwriter, NPR Music, and Talkhouse. Devine's video art has been screened in festivals around the world, and his writing has recently appeared in Image, Nimrod International Journal, the University of Oxford's Echolocations, and New Verse Review. "In Is Free" was made with the support of a New York State Council on the Arts Fellowship. www.midevine.com
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