Ash Bowen

Rustic

—for Jane

Buckeye and birch, your body
was a glow of hardwood trees
no logger could resist.  The worst
sawed the night with bunkhouse dreams

of walking your perimeter
and carving terror in the beauty
of your interior.  He courted the elm
and oak of your desire, swore
                                  
he loved you before the polished
mahogany of a church.  Walnut
and alder, sweet gum and spruce,
he felled you on your wedding night

with a honeymoon of skidders. 
Come morning, he looked at you
like scrub pine, drove away, leaving you
like cordwood he’d cut and piled for somebody else.