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Oak
Ashley Knowlton

My husband has a tattoo of a tree.
Coastal oak roots dig into his pelvis
crest. Contorting monochrome branches reach,
radiate from his spine and crawl across
his shoulder blades. Bark of fine brown bristles,
scars and carbuncles. Faded black branches
are bare at the tail-end of autumn. Chills
my breath just looking at them, like he has
a sharp draft that follows him as he walks.
Yet even in the dark, frigid night air,
when oaks, from windows, are bouquets of knots,
twisted bones and skinned knuckles, creeping, they’re
stunning. When wrapped in his limbs, those bare arms,
or anchored to his roots, he feels so warm.

—
Ashley Knowlton has a BA in Comparative Literature from CSU Fullerton and an MA in English Composition from San Francisco State University. She teaches full-time and writes poetry for enjoyment and renewal. Her work has been published in Pomona Valley Review, 50 Haikus, and DASH. She lives in the farthest northern coastal pocket of California with her husband, son, two cats, two chickens, and dog.

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Have you read these poems:
Walking at Dusk by M. C. Aster
Columbus Circle by Paul-John Ramos

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