BLOODWOOD

Bleed,
bleed, Bloodwood;
bleed,
as cruel blade
bites through skin,
cruelly invades
body ,
drawing blood-sap
from beneath your bark.

Para and Balata
bleed
bouncing balls of rubber;
and Maple,
bottles of liquid sugar.
You, oh Bloodwood,
bleed
blood and liquid anguish.

The Roble and the Poui,
as everyone knows,
brandish golden-yellow flambeaus
in flamboyant Dimanche Gras shows.
You, in your modesty,
your darker-chocolate, golden-yellow,
just as flamboyant, blossoms
go unnoticed
except by the few
fortunate to see you
in your splendour.
Ask the honeybee.

But Bloodwood, I know you.
Can recognize you anywhere,
your buttress-wings,
butterfly-thin
yet sturdy;
almost gossamer
if not made of wood.
I know your anguish.
To feel the cruel blade of men
for no reason
other than to know you;
to see you bleed,
incisions and decisions
to fell you or to spare you.

Bleed,
bleed, Bloodwood;
bleed,
and when your blood
has dried up
your body and your heart-
wood
will give life, give sustenance,
to termites
intimately dwelling
in the wooden homes
and hearts of men.

Tree,
you must be a woman.
Only a woman can
bleed,
bear fruit
and bitter burdens.
Only a woman can
bleed
so much and live.

Copyright ©2010 by G. Newton V. Chance