Father felled an oak to build an ark for the flood that would wash away the world. Mother mourned the tree, the dryads she swore burrowed in the antiquated avenues of its hardwood grain. The world never ended, but Mother did, whose grief spread like cancer, like the roots of an ancient oak.
Poem by James Callan
Photo by Adam Strong
James Callan grew up in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He lives on the Kāpiti Coast, New Zealand on a small farm with his wife, Rachel, and his little boy, Finn. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Bridge Eight, White Wall Review, Maudlin House, Mystery Tribune, and elsewhere. His novel, A Transcendental Habit, is available with Queer Space.
One reply on “Roots”
Wow. One of the most beautiful poems I’ve read lately. Packs an emotional punch in such a short amount of space.