Big Tree

I spent childhood days
climbing the pecan tree
that overhung our pool
memorizing its notches and scent
as it waited for the right time
to drop its leaves into
the cool water

For a change of scenery
I scaled the forest of
southern pines
across from my home
Prickles of needles
stabbing my knees & elbows
Communing with crumbly bark
scratching my shins

For years I rode west through
hilly roads of Georgia with
no neighborhoods in sight
only the occasional slanted shack
collapsed roof, overgrown yard

A bend in the road slowed us down
drawing attention to a Live Oak
that would call to me
Look, it said,
Look at this long, thick branch.
Do you know what people
used to use me for?

I was only a child
I didn’t live in the times
this tree remembered
No one in my family or little town
gathered to witness
the horror
Why would this big tree
want to share this history?

It knew the only way I’d learn
was through confession of
its forced involvement
Don’t climb me, it warned
You’d never be free from the stains
seeped into my roots.

By: Jennifer Rodrigues

Jennifer lives on the sacred Powhatan land of Fairfax, VA. She is a certified trauma-informed yoga therapist and instructor, a queer and neurodivergent military spouse and mom. Her poetry and photography have been featured in Passengers, Susurrus, FERAL, The Jelly Bucket, Mid-Atlantic Review, Paper Dragon, America’s Future anthology by WWPH and several military anthologies. Her photography has been nominated for Best of the Net.