In this oasis, the eucalyptus trees 

are petrifying to stone. The stumps remain, 

exposed to wind and rain, a reminder 

of that which was. Has been. 

And is gone. Once, far away from here,

we ran and played ’neath trees like these.

(They eat the soil, or so they say…)

Mangoes graced and lit the garden,

are they still there? I’d like to think so, yes.

There are so many lives than these, 

my body holds its shape. More or less. 

I think of the deaths I must have died: 

one day the earth fell away and they came

to wash my hands and feet and turn 

my body this way and that

squeezing my limbs into clothes 

that I never otherwise would wear.

(Not noticing how I’d eat their soil, their air!)

How people said, “_____ loved this, or that…”

without a care of who I really was. Or thought.

I was precious for that little while, 

made me laugh, the gurgle unheard (of course),

and when I returned, the world had changed. Yet

the same night blossoms littered the breeze

rustled the leaves on the trees. Once again, 

I live. But, then, again, you do not know me. 

(Did they not tell you, I will eat your soul?)