Semen Trees (4/1/16)

The trees in Oakland smell like semen this time of year,
attracting the bees
to risk their endangered existence once again.
The birds take the highest nest,
chirping down at the bees
who roll around in pollen.
Spring always does this to people:
makes us remember the birds and the bees.

Because it’s Spring
and the bees
want to ****
the semen trees,

and the birds
flap their wings
and chirp their words

and we are meant to
listen.

But come nighttime,
the trees return to silence,
not yet hot enough
for cicadas
to become birds of the dark.

Again, I find myself in Josh’s room.
This nightly occurrence. His bed
reminds me of a tree branch—
the way it cradles his body,
like a hand
with an open palm.

“Goodnight, bud”
he says to me
as I look out the window—
Oakland is so dark
now. So fragile.

If I tried to climb the trees
now, the branches would snap
like arms of a mannequin.

Flower buds
would fall to the sidewalk
and be stepped on
come sunrise.

Because it’s Spring
and the bees
want to ****
the semen trees,

and the birds
flap their wings
and chirp their words,

and I can’t help but
listen.

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Semen Trees (4/1/16)