by Dolo Diaz

Growing up, cylindrical corpses stacked in fathers’ truck, a massive machine with M.A.N. decal’d in front, and father, all five feet—perched in the driver’s seat headed for the sawmill. The ones around us, apple, lemon, peach, trees kept for fruit, dogs for hunting, cats for mice. Forests kept at bay by grassy fields, like shorelines holding back the ocean. Forests the mighty home of wolves that could swallow whole small girls in red capes and helpless grandmothers. Trees of the forest never became pets. And now I live under towering redwoods in my backyard. Colossal Monterey pines that sway and hiss with the faintest wind, thirsty for currents. Drinkers of fog, spitting it back like bullets. In the dead of night, like the moon shadow of God, waiting. Perfectly still. We are theirs.

Dolo Diaz is a scientist/poet with roots in Spain, currently residing in California. Her work has appeared in ONE ART, The Summerset Review, Centaur, The Indianapolis Review, 2River View, among others. Her website is dolodiaz.com.