by Karen Kilcup
elegy for the ash trees
the final ash fell from the last terrace
of my old neighborhood
the chainsaw gnawed at its trunk
until it groaned like someone opening the door
to a room they’d rather not enter
before the ash borers i’d bike beneath its branches
outstretched as though to offer me a gift
before i learned how something small could burrow deep
split you apart from the inside out
before i knew the ache of what cannot be seen
its bark cankered & cracked
autumn arrived earlier each year leaves
glowing embers by equinox bald by october
boughs of bony hands grasping
begging for something i cannot offer
that day birthed a new stretch of sky
but it wasn’t the sun i noticed
it was the absence a chair imprint on the carpet
of an empty room i could only squint
at the harsh gleaming truth of it
Kate Gargo (she/her) is a poet, fiction writer, and essayist. She has a BA in English – Creative Writing from the University of Wisconsin – Eau Claire and is currently pursuing an MA in Professional Poetry Writing from the University of Denver. Kate received honorable mention in the Association of Writers’ 2022 Intro Journals project, and has recent work featured in Mulberry Literary. Her work focuses on nature, the confluence of grief and joy, trauma, and coming of age. She currently lives in Northeast Wisconsin. Instagram: @parliament_of_owls.
A New Englander with old farming roots, Karen Kilcup is the Elizabeth Rosenthal Excellence Professor of American Literature, Environmental & Sustainability Studies, and Women’s, Gender, & Sexuality Studies at UNC Greensboro. In addition to her fourteen academic books, she has published numerous scholarly and creative works in journals and anthologies. Her poem “Feathers and Wedges” won the 2022 Julia Peterkin Prize for poetry, and her forthcoming poetry collection The Art of Restoration was awarded the 2021 Winter Goose Poetry Prize. Find out more at www.karenkilcup.org.