BY MEL ARTHUR
I tell my therapist with a mouthful of
squirming tree branches &
white-yellow-blue flowers that I am
afraid to taste my memory
so when I eat yogurt, I sit infront of my window
halfway hoping a mother squirrel would come
share its mouth with me minus all the nuts
and untruths hollowing out
its cheeks. not those. I don’t want those.
me? my mouth? I want to taste a tree,
remember it from root up,
soil all stuck in the places my wisdom teeth refuses to grow
and I hope I swallow down
all the dirt&bark&leaves&flowers followed by gallons
of saliva, so maybe the bouquet of unknown memory
hanging out in my body
can sprout in my stomach
or gurgle like fish, as the saying goes
or maybe the peach-mango flavored Dum-Dum
lollipop
next to my yogurt can reshape
itself into the mother memories
my therapist says are
too easy for me to forget,
too easy for her silhouette to
be gone from my mind, my tongue
and oh goodness, I can’t see her anymore
or smell her. where can she be where is she
where&where&where&where–
but back to the tree.
and how its branch also becomes an arm
reaching for my Chobani cookie dough
flip with hard-ass cookie dough pieces
and the father squirrel has left me by now, so sure
I give it up in exchange for a piece
of its soft soft bark
which become tender
like hands in my mouth,
digits moving on their own
three at a time, each fingertip
swirling chunks of cookie-dough
in the corner of my cheeks
where all the drool lies in the
shape of my mother moving
all the way down my throat
oh. wait. wait. damn it, I mean bark. I meant bark. yes bark
but everyone knows bark spelled backwards is hands
and a hand
is what the tree gives me when its finally
time to spit out all the bouquets of
pink-yellow-red flowers&dirt&leaves beneath my teeth
all mushed
and gray now
forgive the trail of oak spouts, lilac seeds,
dirt, sunflower middles that follow in my wake
I am only trying to reach somewhere this flower-body of
mine can report back to a therapist
so she finally smiles and says good job,
in the tone
of my mother whose voice I can no longer
remember.
Writer | Mel Arthur ‘25 | marthur25@amherst.edu
Editor | Siani Ammons ‘27 | sammons27@amherst.edu