god's chestnut tree is behind 
the italian place; the one your father
parks at to collect chestnuts, spines & all.

he's filling his black paint bucket. 

i went down the stone path to
the chestnut tree on campus & it's burs 
are dull & nonthreatening. 

does the infancy of planets 
always go unnoticed?

i'm telling you i felt each barb 
as they matured--challenged the callouses 

skin: thick as mom's leather pocket book

dollar bills wadded up beneath 
the surface

your freckles are made of pennies

earth: a chestnut in early july 

each fruit will someday be 
the heart of another person if you
give it enough time

god, our father, standing
on the car roof to pick them 

he wears gardening gloves

there are coats made of needles
at the goodwill 

you try one on & i tell you
that you look aching

lately i've been tree-shadow 
wandering-- cutting off the dark 
branches & burning them
at the bottom of the closet

the shadow of the chestnut tree
is heaven-- or maybe just 
the Subaru he drives home

it's selfish but i know
i want someone else to peel me open

leave the husk in a trash bag for
one of the those clothing donations bins

i crawl in the slot & undo bag
after bag hoping for something sharp
to wear

drinking ginger ale, i'd snap off
the tabs to make necklaces & 
cut my tongue on the bent metal

blood tastes like raw chestnuts

ziplock bag me for the walk home

did the earth peel open like this?
or did god dig in with her fingers,

quills under nails,

to pry everything out

collaborative is what i call a body

is what i call a tree

i'm not interested in the chestnuts in june
they're not ready yet

if you position the telescope the right way
you'll see earth without water

you'll see the chestnut tree without
the spines

i keep gardening gloves in dresser

two pairs