Kathryn Savage
Trespass


Where the bark is stripped from the trunk, pale ribbons of wood shine.

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It is gorgeous—the beetle that moves inside the trees, tight as a choke. A glossy emerald. Mostly hidden.

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This was the spring the storm knifed open trees, up and down the block. The Corolla was unharmed. I’d keep the car; he the house. I watched a cyclist veer around tall branches balancing a sixpack on the handlebars. 

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In Whittier, our neighbor’s daughter doing one-handed cartwheels in her front yard at dusk. Hot for May. Then the tornado came tearing. Left thick branches wet and splayed.

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The girl cartwheeled, one-handed. The Corolla, barricaded by trees. I sat in it after work, every night, ran the air conditioner. My son looked out the living room window of his father’s house and waved to me. I waved back. The cream-colored wood glowed. At dusk, I felt myself trespass back inside. But in the car, cool air brushed my cheeks and knees like a hand that wanted to touch me.

Kathryn Savage’s Groundglass: An Essay (Coffee House Press, 2022)︎︎︎, explores topics of environmental justice and links between pollution and public health. Her writing has appeared in the Academy of American Poets poets.org, American Short Fiction, Ecotone Magazine, the Guardian, Poets & Writers, VQR, BOMB, and the anthology Rewilding: Poems for the Environment.