Where trees used to be
Those hills are bare because we were hungry,
daughters reliant on the saws of our fathers,
and now we are women who will not ask
forgiveness for the love we need. A man, a man,
another man — Darling, the soil erodes
as each falls. With nothing to stop them,
loose lashes sluice down cheeks
in rivers of black mascara.
Inspired by Deb’s Tangential fringe (I wish I had used “fringe” because I love it so much; maybe we need to write fringe poems, ladies!). Where I started to go with this was a poem about the three of us (somewhat). We have lots in common, and Deb’s poem made me think about it. All three of our fathers had a hand in cutting trees: Deb’s as a logger in Arizona, Jill’s in a paper mill in the Adirondacks, mine in a paper mill in Northern Maine. All three of us — I hope I’m not speaking out of turn — have been hungry for the right love, though I suppose that’s not unique to us. Anyway, I intended to keep going with the parallels but I stopped. Or more precisely, my energy stopped. I don’t know if this is how it ends or if this is stanza 1. I do know it’s bed time here on the East Coast, and I’m going to try to put my head on my pillow with some gratitude for this stump of a poem.