Brown leaf in a brown cup.
Hickory or elm. It’s been
so long I’m unsure.
If I saw the tree
I’d know. Maybe cottonwood.
It came a ways
to get where I am.
Not near as long or far,
but tormented and bruised,
too far gone to touch
no matter how kind and
gentle the intent.
I meant no harm, but it’s worse
for the wear since we met.
So it steeps and steams
in a cup on the desk.
Prod it now, it pushes
back rather than breaks.
Certainly dead,
but finally it can stand
the fumbling of the living.
Autumn bullion; a gorgeous smell.
Can’t help myself but to taste it.
Sip it like whiskey.
Smooth as a river stone,
and seasoned cord wood
with a finish.
Makes me homesick for splinters
from digging kindling out of the firebox.
Its closest kin
must be 400 yards.
I could never reach them from here.
So I sip its tea
to become blood brothers.
Let it blow around in me,
feel the soil of its homeland
in my bones. Let the spirit
roots feed my soul.
I know it sounds crazy,
but maybe it’ll work.
Meanwhile I dry it,
press it in a book.
They don’t have trees here,
but now I have proof.
Ben Terry is incarcerated at JCCC (a level 5 prison) in Jefferson City, MO. where he is serving life without parole. His work has appeared in Calore, Trajectory, Hanging Loose, Rattle, and J Journal. Ben Terry 1142558/ J.PayEmail/JCCC, MO.