ASH DAVIDA JANE
transplanting
in her body I walk to Rydale lake gather foxgloves
come home for tea & write the names of trees
sycamores & firs & a grove of hazels
I mend her brother’s clothes help build the fire
I practice diligence in the face of her life
look in the mirror & the vision fills with white noise
the shape in the glass blurred & elusive
like trying to count my fingers in a dream
in this year I pause halfway up Mt Vic to catch my breath
who was the last woman in my family that could name
each of these trees by sight? trees unknown to Dorothy or me
dirt under our fingernails trying to rebuild our bodies
from the land & the land with our bodies
I take the pot with the plant that died during transplant
empty it in the corner of the lot & hope nobody looks out
to see me abandoning it there under its own dirt
it takes more than one human lifetime for a forest to grow
my glass bowl breaks & Dorothy bends down
picks up the shards as thick as my fingers wraps them
in sheets of paper & flourishes the bouquet
afterwards our fingers bloom red with tiny incisions
walking with Dorothy
a dog bothers the scraps
of food around the compost bin
it howls at the murmur of the village stream
ignoring the voice calling from the hill
the trees gleam with overnight rain
each tree, taken singly, was beautiful
the bees emerging
from their wooden house
mistake me for
a flower and for
a moment I am one
hopelessly lacking in pollen
swaying in the breeze
and taking up space
standing still in the mud
unmaking myself amid
leaves I’ve seen a thousand times
and never wondered the names of
some trees putting out red shoots
query: what trees are they?
a fantail flits from branch to branch
something bigger than language
in its movements
which loses
its sheen when captured
later the sky between
apartments and street lamps
empties but for the full moon
and Venus striving to be seen
as brightly
all the heavens seemed in one perpetual motion
grit on the footpath like glitter
the roads very dirty
a morepork somewhere in the dark
oblivious to me and better for it
Note: Lines in italics are taken from Dorothy Wordsworth’s Alfoxden Journal.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ash Davida Jane is a poet and bookseller from Wellington. Her work can be found in Starling, Sweet Mammalian, Mimicry, Food Court, -Ology, Sport, Peach Mag, and Mayhem. Her first book Every Dark Waning was published in 2016.