Leaves of Three

Bare-handed, my father and I unknowingly tore poison ivy

from necks of trees by the rectory.

His knuckles like plums. Knees, red-apples,

bitten by twigs and brush.

I was dying and I stood holding a pair of garden shears,

coming in to cut as my father pulled.

On my head I wore a veil. Did not try to push

the lace from my eyes. We destroyed collars of vine.

They say God is three: the father, the son, and the holy spirit.

So too comes poison. One leaf for every God.

My ribs; a bear-trap. There is so much

beneath body’s surface. I ate holly leaves to survive.

As we worked my father complained how no one else

would come to clear away this side of the church grounds.

To be a martyr, you must first assume you are, in some sense,

only one. Killing poison was easy enough.

Once we tore it free, we dosed it in herbicide.

Watched as already leaves began to brown

.

It was sweltering July. A time for redemption.

The next morning, we woke up with writhing fingers.

Our hands peeled and itched. My father showed me

how to rub lotion on. Only once he admitted,

“We should have worn gloves.”

I lay in bed with my palms up after a shower. Hair wet

against my pillow. There, I dreamed

I was a church yard tree. Begged ivy to come.

Envelop my hands. Find the thirds of me

or else, find the whole to hold onto.