cutting great neck

Somebody’s crying. I can just barely distinguish her sobs—frail and feathery, like little hummingbirds—as they sink into the bitter night air. Her bare feet crunch the blades of grass around me, and swift jolts and vibrations pour into my roots like frozen jets of water, gradually swelling in magnitude as the girl draws closer and closer. I lurch in pain, just as a vigorous shock reverberates into the dirt around me; a long, anguished yowl seeps into my pores. It’s the girl’s knees punching stiffly into the earth, I think—that booming shock that twists my stem.



She starts screaming words—human words, words I can’t comprehend—and her voice peels away the warmth of night like a tree’s bark, leaving only the naked darkness to settle into the turf. Her strident shrieks send chills through my body. If only I could help her, if only I could understand—if only we would be able to understand each other, to speak to each other...



Her tears reach my taproots. Warm and zesty, the tears elicit some ill, distorted emotion in me—not empathy, no—but a sore, shrill feeling of torment and solitude. I yearn to see—yearn for my petals to open, for my eyes to unlock like a pair of clogged jaws—just so I could capture one short glimpse of her, just so I could watch her anguish unfold before my very own eyes.

I think: Maybe if I see it—maybe if I gaze at it long enough—I could help her.