Kwame Dawes
HOW TO PICK A HANGING TREE
HOW TO PICK A HANGING TREE
Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.
Lewis Allen
Young trees may look sturdy, but they have no memory,
they are green so near the surface they bend with the sudden weight;
and the truth is that not all trees can carry a man’s dead weight
with enough air between pointed toes and earth, with enough height
so the scent of rotting can carry far enough to be a message
for those who are sniffing the muggy air for news.
Old as it may look, craggy bark, twisted branches,
drooping limbs, old as it may seem sitting there by the edge
of the canal, that live oak understands the simple rituals of hanging.
See, there is the natural notch where the rope will slip
and hold, and here, angled like this, the damp air
off the river, carries the decay for miles and miles.
Sometimes, a fresh tree will simply die after the piss
of a dying man seeps into its roots. Sometimes a tree
will start to rot from guilt or something like a curse.
But the old trees, seasoned by the flame of summer lightning,
and hardened to tears, know it is nothing to be a tree, mute
and heartless, just strong enough to carry a man until he turns to air.