Literal Latte

I see it against sky, winter

cloroxing the light as I aim

the rifle, each clump, parasite,

a world in the wider sense

of the tree. Elm, it should've been

dead years ago, hanging on

against blight, the widening

thoroughfare, the very notion

people should live in tree-lined streets.

Growth-stunted skeleton, lichened limbs,

it freezes solstice in its bones.
Weakened, prey to sticky pearls

that cling to bird beaks, feet, mizzle,

the mistletoe blooms like the brain

in a glass jar, perfectly rounded,

ended, alive with some purpose

other than mere life, signaling

the trunk to let go its silhouette,

take up its music and dance, roots

waltzing dumb in darkness.

The mistletoe metastasizes in us,

silencing the organ life cannot

do without and love can, green heart,

the same green, cream spreading

one day against the sunset of blood.

The rifle shell can bring it down, bring

us down, alter us, we who suck the earth

for breath, wait for it to hold us.

But before the parasite, almost

parasol, ribs bursting from the core,

before we know how the uninvited kills,

empties shade, two mouth draw together,

silent as breath but as determined,

and together, astonished by desire,

the dilating eye, press away the word.