Vicious Trees
by Mary A. Turzillo
Not the kind that wave menacing branches
in Walpurgis Night winds,
nor the type that worm their roots
into your drainage system, flooding your house,
these trees anaesthetize you with their blossom's fragrance
then grow fast enough to wrap twigs around your neck
so in the morning your wife finds your corpse yoked and strangled
or they prick you with paralyzing sap
and grow thorns (overnight)
into your legs, arms, trunk, even eyes,
trees that moan, take pity, take pity,
then turn into dryads and quicken your daughter,
making her mother to chairs, tables, oak benches,
or they whisper, just whisper,
how you should leave the forest to them,
to them and the dark moon and sky,
how you should die, just die.