We are brothers, you and I

like branches of an ancient trunk

we reach for different parts of the sky


Ghosts come and break you

use you, like the handle to their axe

to seek out your brothers…


Our trunk is now a stump

our siblings tied in a bunch

our roots sour, wither and rot


They make fire with our branches

blanch our seeds in their pot

so that when we are ash

even our smoke water

cannot feed them

or bring forth

one new



(c) Mary Tang 2015

About Mary Tang

An urban orchardist everyday, a volunteer regularly, a poet sometimes and a blogger since March 2015. I travel when I can. Food is a constant.
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