The Tree/Lub Dub, Lub Dub (the beating heart) – by AZIA DUPONT

Lub Dub, Lub Dub

        (the beating heart)

 

It seems no matter where I hide fetal-positioned

cursing the rainclouds for infiltrating my brainwaves,

my eyes all grey water pouring, a blinding fog

choking me silent for the fifteenth time

in two weeks, my husband is always there. He says

the clouds are just water and so are you

and suddenly I’m all Pisces electric, practicing

my backstroke as I gaze up at the harvest moon.


 

But always there’s another storm,

always I am followed by black shadow serpents

whispering, so sly they are, how they slither into

my thoughts rhythmically building their nests, laying

their eggs, giving birth to another round of black

shadow serpents hissing all static blocking,

There is no hope for you, no life

for you here!


 

Again, my husband will talk of waters

and sometimes even stars smashing

heads of demonic serpents beneath the weight

of my supernovas— my heart!

My heart!

My beating heart beating life alive again!


The Tree

 

I’ve been feeling so censored lately, gagged

and bound to other people’s comfort. Their truth

intertwined with my truth, but really they’re erasing

me. Really I’m just pencil marks and they’ve rubbed

their brand new jumbo pink eraser all over my pulsating

veins. I’m left kind of faded, I’m barely there,

but a trace of me comes through every once in a while.

But even when my truth is right in front of them,

they find themselves blind to it. They find themselves

dumbfounded. Eventually they find themselves

without me as I have a tendency to storm very red,

quite electric.


 

And often I find myself alone like this. Alone like the trees

planted in the black top parking lots of all the major

shopping centers. Alive among the vast

empty black masses. Alive but not planted

close enough to other trees.

I’m alive but not alive because I chose to be.

Birthed to fill another’s empty chest, to be a pretty little

thing, but she didn’t consider the upkeep. She didn’t

understand that once you plant a tree, the tree requires

a special amount of tender care.

That sometimes trees need protection from the bad men.

That sometimes trees need their mother to stop loving bad men.


 

Sometimes the tree wishes someone would notice her

leaves, how they change, how she’s not beautiful,

that she’s dying. Each breath bringing her closer

to her funeral. Each breath like taking three breaths

because everyone she loves keeps breaking her heart.

Each breath a precursor to the final breath.


 

The tree says I don’t have much time,

could you please stop swinging your ax

at my gut?


 

***

me1

***Azia DuPont, a Minnesota native, currently resides in Southern California. She lives online at http://www.aziadupont..com and on Twitter @aziadupont ***
Links: Personal Website: www.aziadupont.com

 

*Thanks to Brian Michael Barbeito again for his amazing landscape photography that we have used as the feature photo for Azia’s work.*

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