It’s Not Who You Are But Where You Are
A sycamore dominates Its limbs crown the canopy—it’s hard straight top—its trunk
thick and round as three barrels The forest slopes south— and south the forest slides
into pine—but here sycamores hold the forest with its champion thickness—the thickness
furrowed with a mind that wishes for swifts —wishes for time to spread nutlets across earth—
soft and dark—pioneering—following the sun— west as west can grow— leave the rest behind
A tree moves one sapling at a time—the forest scurrying along by the roots—the young
sycamore just a bit further west toward the sun— the pioneer sycamore–-whose top crowns
the forest canopy before the forest slopes south into pine—but here sycamores hold the forest
with its champion thickness furrowed with a mind for swifts that no longer come and wishes
to leave behind the pines—the old forest thinning or thickening or rotting with vine
and undergrowth—westward seeking—seeking clarity— seeking the end of the question —bending like a bridge—ever asking—never answered
That Time I Exchanged Minds with a Bull Bay Magnolia
We exchanged minds / a bull bay / and I—for an hour / Them—diamond-bright / high and beaming above / my house I could hear growing / at the tips—whose root / mind touched my own / and sang to me a lullaby / The pine at the far end / of the lot sang its own/ song—its horn reverberating / through soil back to me and up / through my trunk and branches / My fibrous thoughts doubled / and doubled back upon / and layered in resin that lows / the eyes— and pulls the fragrances / through my waxy ends / stretching— stretching— stretched / I saw through all green reaches / that touched my roots—so all / at once my mind spread / A sanctuary—that opened me / into time— my mind appearing / in bush and limb and wild / onion—and holly’s waxy face / Of my body—I could not see it / Instead— I sang with other trumpets / in town— elm and oak and pine— / the wind urging more— more / when it blew against me My / home remained flat and still— / a small break in the forest / mind— and when they returned me / to the inside of me and my / little home—I cried
Cassandra Whitaker (she/they) is a trans writer living in rural Virginia. Whit’s work has been
published in Michigan Quarterly Review, beestung, Conjunctions, Lambda Literary Review, The Mississippi Review, and other places. Wolf Devouring A Wolf Devouring A Wolf is forthcoming from Jackleg Press in 2025. They are a member of the National Book Critics Circle. Wolfs-den.page.