the first time you open
the baobab trunk
by yourself
you don’t remember
what to look for
in snaps of dry wood
your ivory on bark
mother told you once
where to pry
whispered
somewhere it is raining
that water made the desert
and the forest
years before
he made you
his fingerprint
is not the ocean
but the dust
the baobab
has roots in both
if you carve enough
of its bone
you will know
the heart drips
and drink yourself
full of the tree
like the matriarchs
before you
the ones who fly
in vultures
above the elders
in the leaves
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 3.
Geoff Anderson has an MA in Teaching English as a Second Language. He teaches “there”, “their”, and “they’re” in Columbus, Ohio. His work has most recently been selected by Clear Poetry, Rust + Moth, and *82 Review, among others.
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