Above me, the branches toss toward and away from each other
the way privacy does with what ends up
showing, despite ourselves, of
who we are, inside.
Then they’re branches again—hickory, I think.
—It’s not too late, then.
Notes: The title of this poem is from a line in Toi Derricotte’s “The Minks.”
Source: Poetry (July/August 2020)
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