Sarah Lanphear
There’s an etching in the southern magnolia
on the corner of Fourth and Mae, a scar
hidden by flowers, sticks, and leaves
on a branch just low enough,
just within reach.
The cut buried
by men who know how to hide
when they need to, who know
to work by night. White
hoods masked
by the dark.
The wound deepens
with each sunset, suffocating
a branch not made to bear the weight
of a man or the tension
of a rope.
But the hoods are too tied up to see
the carving, cutting too deep,
the branch, wearing away
until the day it finally
snaps.
The Tributary 