This thing I’m afraid to say
it won’t leave the back of my throat.
I swallow and gulp down gallons of water
until finally I give in and switch to gin
infused with little bitter juniper memories
of the wind wept trees
whose roots grew down into our foundation,
breaking it up years before we lived there,
before we knew enough to know
what happens when things seem
They smelled green
but their berries were
a funny shade of blue.
We never knew
what we cut down.