Tigress Hugs Manchurian Fir
This
far north
the sun rises
and sinks in the
same spot. Insects
announce the apocalypse
and fog moves through all
the uncountable hours like a
bright gray scar. The forest is
awash in a dial of light more
luminiferous than a Canaletto. I
misuse the words forest, woodland,
jungle because I have never walked
alone through forest, woodland, jungle.
I say Canaletto because I long to be in a
place of light different from this place of light.
The days are bleak and I’ve forgotten how to dress.
I don’t believe you need to wear a loincloth to prove
your sincerity, or know how to sew your own lederhosen.
I begin my diaries with Chipko means to hug in Hindi.
And even though I know the history of the ecofeminist
embrace is fierce, not cute, it helps me understand the gap
between my life and the denuded hillside. There are remote
places in the world—Garhwal, Siberia—where trees are extracted
like teeth to make way for the king’s summer palace, for a sporting
goods company. With this new virus, hugging has been outlawed, so the
picture of you, dear tigress, has sustained me more than a triple-glazed room
in Yakutsk. If I had been sent to collect spring water and found myself in a
desert, I too would want to lie down in a pile of broken glass just to feel a
piece of my lung. We are asked to leave things to chance, but if the future
is really a slaughterhouse, then why not stake our territory?
Imagine saying to the tree: I’m cold and alone
and I need this small fire to burn.
Imagine the tree replying:
Come seedling, let’s dance.
far north
the sun rises
and sinks in the
same spot. Insects
announce the apocalypse
and fog moves through all
the uncountable hours like a
bright gray scar. The forest is
awash in a dial of light more
luminiferous than a Canaletto. I
misuse the words forest, woodland,
jungle because I have never walked
alone through forest, woodland, jungle.
I say Canaletto because I long to be in a
place of light different from this place of light.
The days are bleak and I’ve forgotten how to dress.
I don’t believe you need to wear a loincloth to prove
your sincerity, or know how to sew your own lederhosen.
I begin my diaries with Chipko means to hug in Hindi.
And even though I know the history of the ecofeminist
embrace is fierce, not cute, it helps me understand the gap
between my life and the denuded hillside. There are remote
places in the world—Garhwal, Siberia—where trees are extracted
like teeth to make way for the king’s summer palace, for a sporting
goods company. With this new virus, hugging has been outlawed, so the
picture of you, dear tigress, has sustained me more than a triple-glazed room
in Yakutsk. If I had been sent to collect spring water and found myself in a
desert, I too would want to lie down in a pile of broken glass just to feel a
piece of my lung. We are asked to leave things to chance, but if the future
is really a slaughterhouse, then why not stake our territory?
Imagine saying to the tree: I’m cold and alone
and I need this small fire to burn.
Imagine the tree replying:
Come seedling, let’s dance.
Notes:
From A God at the Door by Tishani Doshi (Copper Canyon Press, 2021). Reprinted with permission
This poem appeared as part of the series “Not Too Hard to Master,” a new series of poets writing on form and sharing a prompt. You can also read another shape poem by Tishani Doshi, “The Comeback of Speedos,” as well as Doshi’s essay, “In Praise of Shape Poetry,” and her writing prompt.
Source:
Poetry
(January 2023)
