Tropical Storm Irma uprooted the backyard
alligatorwood, which was too bad—
the tree had challenged the Cliffs of Moher
to see who could last longest.
I am sorry I never grew my arms
long enough to wrap around
its deep-ridged trunk.
The Georgia-red mud made the root base—
wider than I’m tall—
ugly as a monster’s maw
drooling the rain’s dregs.
I doubt the skeleton
it pulled out of the ground,
roots wrapped around the skull
and threaded through ribs,
would have remained buried.
Bones crave the air and light
of solved mysteries.
-
Stephen Roger Powers started writing poetry almost twenty years ago to pass time in the middle of the night when he was too energized to sleep after coming off the stage in comedy clubs around the Midwest. He is the author of three poetry collections published by Salmon Poetry in Ireland. He also has a collection of short stories forthcoming from Closet Skeleton Press.
