a bewilderment          I who was merely an afterthought


an obscure thing barely noticed among the giants


naked now to your scrutiny          I who lived surrounded


cloaked in others’ luxury          indistinct and anonymous


did not ask to be seen



what drifted down through their branches


what seeped into my roots


was enough



what seems to you like amputation          disfigurement


was for me my only body



one by one the others taken


their branches tumbling          the forest


disassembled by human hands

    Elizabeth Austen is our Poet in Residence for August.



    Previously: Shall Not Be Infringed, The Citizen, and [              ].