You burned my letters.
The paper crumpled around my voice
like a hand curls into a fist.
A hundred foetuses bent to comma
around the fledgling hearts.
You heard the cinders whispering
to you for weeks after and dreamed
of the wonderful things those words
could have been.
I burned your books one by one
and read the message you meant
to send in the ashes. The burning
pages warmed the house for days.
So when you asked if I understood,
I could finally say I did. I buried
the stubborn spines in the back yard
and planted a tree to mark them.
Now the roots feed on our history
and the leaves foretell our future.
The branches spread like open arms.