I dared him, “Singe me; branch out.” I seduced
a tree. They called him Fate. I called him Mine.
He grew with seeds I sowed and reaped in time
to squander autumn’s roots. That exile burned
like forest fire. Each stump remained, the ash,
the fossil corpse I lit for him, for us.
You see, he promised little mortal kinds
of blossoms, kinds that he could not return.
Because the Fate is marrow etched:
once lit cannot be sated. Such thirst is Mine.