The Trees! They are Striking Themselves!
Thirty-two years ago, I was born next to a swamp. Now, when I open my eyes, it’s just tree stump next to tree stump next to tree stump next to a bird shitting on a tree stump. Thirteen percent of Tinder users believe that trees have souls. Look at everything the trees know: the truth about crop circles, which of their brothers held Jesus seven feet high—the last whispers of how He was stretched like a lightning rod. The trees are going on strike, they have to kill themselves so they can make signs so we can know that they are striking. The trees choose the least watered, ones soon to be shaped like boards, those that never thought to reach the sky.
C.J. Miles lives in Iowa with his wife. His poetry has appeared in Jet Fuel Review, Five 2 One Magazine, Unbroken Journal, and Gravel. His collection of poetry, What Is Anything Without Pandas, is forthcoming from Ampersand Books.