the fall of the baobab tree

cavernous us, with the throat
that grew around the peach pit

i shouted upwards & watched my 
voice become a tree with green-yellow
fruit & a prehistoric body 

the oldest baobab trees are 
1,000-2,000 years old

their leather-wallet ears
still ringing with the first 
shocks of gunpowder from 
the battle of Wolf Mountain River 
in China 

wanting to crawl into themselves
as they watched the Norman Conquest 
in Europe from all across 
Sunland, 

linking arms & humming when 
they felt the earth soak with
blood 

you tell me that some of
the oldest baobab tree are dying 

they crack from the base

rot of rain & drought.

i arrive inside, counting 
the tree's rings as they wrap me 
up closer, 

scarves of wood & voice 

& i'm in the downstairs closet again
at my parent's house 

where none of the mittens have matches
& retired coats hang from hooks

only there's no doors this time,
the ceiling grows upwards &
the walls sprout white mold

caving in

i'm here with the baobab trees
asking why they have to 
leave now

what new life have they discovered
away from the girth of their bodies?

do giants prey themselves smaller?

i run my hands across all their bodies

skin becoming human & soft

skin becoming feathered & fawn

how many animals have you worn?

before you go, teach me how to
grow with your own scars

twisting & knotting, 

pockmarked from run-ins 
with elephants & sharp intentioned
will of humans

i came here to find a jacket

the IV, an old root looking for life

i imagine the baobab tree does
not resist death 

not after this long

i sit as it lets go slowly

as it peels apart like a sinew-less
tangerine, lobes dropping
like pillows

in my bed i hold onto you

i want to ask you to count my rings

i want to tell you that 
i felt the sting of gunpowder in
the fall

instead i pull the room shut like
a curtain

peel open my chest

& find a coat to wear 
for the open door