killing tree

there was blood for days 
after we cut down the pines.
a pair of legs stood
where their stumps used to be.
all the feral cats came
& brought offerings 
of mailboxes & lighters.
one of my father's favorite phrases is,
"it is the way it is." 
he repeated that to himself
from the rocking chair
in my old bedroom.
by this time i was dead too.
i only had a handful
of state quarters to my name.
i took sips from his glasses
of beer as vengeance. 
some people pour out 
& some people drink the world dry.
i wondered about the flesh,
the wood. the birds who used to
knit baby blankets in the branches.
the trees were not gone though
they were angry. i watched
as they shook their bomb shelters
at us. as they waved a sword.
as blood continued to gush
from the legs. my father said
in the bones of our house
there was wood rot
in the shape of the trees.
he said that was why 
we had to kill them. 
i stood in the yard with the legs.
i always wanted a witness,
someone to see what he did to me.
i told the trees i would witness them.
stand so long in the yard
that my own shadow 
would too rot a place in the skin
of the house. the legs 
were my legs. the shadows
were always my shadows.
the feral cats brought dead geese
& empty bottles. i thanked them,
slipping them thimbles of cream.