Xylomancy by Jackie Chicalese

Xylomancy

I sidestep tree branches fermenting in the still puddles of last night’s storm & return with my hands empty.

You’re spreading logs to sun dry before the next bonfire, your body bent small by the strange kaleidoscope of your cells

into a fuller bloom. We sit close as the wood dries to fissure slowly. Grains read like nodes of tree roots haunting

with thirst. I imagine the roots ingrained in the tender soil of your neck, your throat swelled raw with this abundance.

Once the logs dry I help gather them. A splinter lodges inside my thumb, a worry I will carry with me for months.

I’m OK, you say. I want to ask the wood for how long, but we work in silence. Jackie Chicalese