The dead tree and my brother fall
into the poem like the branches
holding this fort, first his,
then mine, what he built and
abandoned like our family,
leaving home for Little League
and Eagle Scouts, at first,
our cherry tree already dying
to stop bearing the hammered nails
and plywood lodged in its arms, chopped,
pitted, bearing my weight
after his. Late May, and I was
brighter and lighter,
convent school almost over, pink
blooms overwhelmed
my face before their seasonal
wake, then the creak of rust
and bark: just not safe.
It turns out trees die of old age.
Everything dies, even
ambition. My All-Star Brother
left first, branches
that held him snapped
beneath me. The bees left me alone,
as did my sisters, my mother –– alone
kept me company –– alone
–– always reliable, never breaking,
or aging, always in bloom, always
green, always alive.