Forest

My arms are as crooked

as tree limbs, my legs bowed

for the knots

in my knees, my spine

bent and awkward

for the vines.

In the center of my chest,

there is a forest

growing – a dense thicket

of pine needles, sharp

and piercing

my dermis, the soft

sponge of my lungs.

From my aorta,

roots tangle

like a maze, bleed sap, thick

like syrup, sticky

for the bruised fruit

of my childhood, the hard stone

of vodka scars.

But,

where there is a forest

there is life.

In this forest,

I am still alive, still breathing.

Damaged but not dead.

I will cut myself down to rise

again, fall and get back up.

I will

rise to fall, rise to fall.

Trees cast themselves off

to give birth to life, peel layers

to reveal layers,

shed their skins.

I will pray

to be a tree, peel my layers

open.

Learn

to break this wind.

© 2010-2025 Chenda Duong

Note: I wrote this poem during an intense and transformative period of growth and change I had when I first moved to Austin, TX in 2010. I was 26 years old at the time.