Trees I Love

by David Spicer

Don’t genuflect if you see me in heaven.
Instead, hush the ghosts hanging out
by the scaffold and raise a bottle
of mescal to me under the hickory,
my throat breaking out in hives. I forgot
my necktie today, but the burlap man
has brought one for me. As I climb
the stairway I gaze at my coffin waiting
for me in the trench by the train,
and all my lovers squeal like deer dodging
horses. Holly, Cherry, and Willow
gather by me to pray. Silence drifts
into the crowd wearing their masks.
I can’t see their faces, but I have a hunch
they’re my wronged victims, and I hear
a moan swell as I drop with a thud
as the lighthouse in the distance begins
its sleep, you touching me as I die this way
every day before the evergreens
sway and wake me with a hint
of heaven’s breath I yearn to know.