rubber tree

we planted a rubber tree in my room
when i was in fifth grade. it grew
purple red & spoke only in questions.
"who are we?" "where does the light go?"
i loved to ask questions back.
"where is the moon tonight?" "am i
old enough to miss my childhood?"
the rubber tree was a poet. i would sometimes
read to her. she would bask in the words.
i only had a few poetry books back then.
she liked emily dickinson the best. 
the next part terrible i am sorry
not to you but to the rubber tree. one day
i played with her leaves. they were thick.
nothing like the palms of the spearmint bush
by the side of the house or 
even the african violet by the sink. 
i tore the leaf following some forest brain impulse.
the rubber tree asked, "why did you do that?"
her blood was like milk. white & sticky.
an attempt to heal. i responded,
"what does it feel like?" she replied,
"have you ever lost a limb?" i had not & so
i did not have a question to give back to her.
i wish i could tell you that i never
did that again. the curiosity. no maybe it 
was hunger. maybe greed. i was not young.
not in the forest way. i came back. i wanted to witness
the blood. how thick it came. her wounds 
made her saint like. i never apologized. that would
have been more cruel. instead, i worked myself up
to asking her, "how many leaves are left in you?"
she was tired. sitting with a handful of
ragged soil. she asked, "how many have 
you taken?" i did not remember. each one though
pressed itself against my throat. sometimes
still i will get a little cut on my thumb
or my knee. the first moment the blood 
will come like the rubber tree. warm & white.
then, my animal nature returns red 
as mars at dusk.