cynthia mcgean
In another life I was a tree
was pregnant when I was a tree
pregnant as a tree
knew the weight growing inside my hollow
the weight of the embryo god in me
kicking to be free.
What grows quickly, dies quickly.
She knew – that ancient self knew –
that ancient other self –
ancient as the underworld
ancient as the tales of women lamenting the dead
lamenting in the streets
lamenting naked in the streets
lamenting youth that bled to death in the streets
bled to death naked lamenting in the streets –
That ancient self knew
the wrenching of bark, wrenching of birth,
of giving birth as a tree –
hard, dumb, once young, unyielding as a tree –
the wrenching of birthing a child who dazzles
dazzles the moment the sun kisses his toes
kisses his toes and falls
in love.
What grows quickly, dies quickly.
She knew – my ancient self –
my ancient other self
with her trunk split open
gaping wound split open
split open by the lightning of desire
the birth of desire
the naked, bloody death of desire
torn open in the streets. She knew.
What grows quickly, dies quickly.
Can we not mourn together,
my ancient self and me –
mourn together
casting our withered leaves
on the waves
as we wail:
Farewell. Farewell.
What grows quickly, dies quickly.
***
Based in Portland, Oregon, Cynthia McGean is an educator, writer and theater artist with a background in social services. Her work spans a wide range of genres, including short stories in publications such as SQ Magazine, VoiceCatcher, Kaleidotrope and The Saturday Evening Post, as well as stage and radio scripts that pop up periodically around the country. Since the 2016 election, she has been increasingly drawn to poetry, both written and performed, as her primary format of creative expression.