Conversations with Inanimate Objects

I used to talk to trees. 
Often I sought their branches 
to hold me when I 
felt my body to small 
to contain what I held. They would 
talk me back into it- taught me how 
to grow inside a husk 
and flourish. But sometimes, 
their advice came unbidden, unwanted- 
twiggish in composure, I snapped, 
and their bark grew silent to me.
My tongue used to be fluent 
in chlorophyll, but now 
I hear whispers cut 
through the rustle of leaves 
and I can no longer confirm 
if it was a 
“Hello” or 
“I’m sorry” or 
“Take care of yourself please” 
I always assume its the last one 
just by the way their bark sounds.


I started speaking to stars, tired
of the quiet. It remains, mostly 
a one sided conversation, 
taking light-years for our words 
to reach each other. This is both
an example and definition 
of our relationship;
knowing what it’s like 
to shine and yet never 
having anyone close enough 
in orbit to see 
we are burning. 
Every now and then 
I get a inkling of 
“It’s Okay” 
“We Know” 
That space and lonely 
can be synonymous; 
it’s an odd comfort. 


I have never talked to the ocean.
There has never been a need
for the sea to ingest 
any verbs or adjectives I 
could come up with. Instead, 
we dance- riptide-quick tangos,
tidal waltzes where we glide
in surf zone and seafoam, 
the gentle push-pull of waves
on the shoreline, setting
the rhythm we float in. 
I haven’t had the strength to say
that I will be landlocked soon.
To the fact we haven’t 
held each other in a year
should be tsunami warning enough
-silence is an effective mode
of communication, but actions 
will always be louder than words-
In a month’s time, 
I will have to use my voice.
It will probably sound like sirens
sobbing on the rocks and the wreckage, 
ragged and beautiful
and heartbroken. 

This poem is about: 
My family


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