Uprooted
Poem by Indigo Moor •
Photo by Vicki Day
 It took all our weight to drag the chain over the stump, my brother and I heaving links heavy enough to strangle hope. Our hands lost in grandfather’s big work gloves, slick grass betrayed our bare feet. The tractor vibrated low. Hummed, screeched, and began humming again. Smoke marbled gray the blue morning. Where we once played king-of-the-hill on the stump’s weathered face, we now played Judas with an iron-linked kiss. Grandfather spat Red Fox tobacco, feathered the clutch once to tighten the noose. The engine leaned, a runner into wind, as the chain notched, deep into the wood, a lover’s embrace gone shockingly wrong. The stump shuddered, groaned, wrenched from the earth and tilted skyward. I don't know what we expected. There were no secrets. No ghosts. No magic. Only naked roots torn from the earth. We stood with hands at our sides, lost in the tremor song of earth, all of us, broken like a promise. Air so raw, it scratched our lungs. Days passed, until once more we circled the stump. Each of us, secretly hoped enough time had passed for the love that married this stump to earth to slip away. We then laid axe to wood and released the rings. Previously published in Tap-Root. |