Catalpa

Catalpa

A doe swims beneath it. Her ears back, black nose
huffing, hooves churning unseen. Her witness,

only the catalpa. Ice-scarred and endangered
by its weight, it grows at the edge

of erosion, leaning from sycamores’ shade
on the bank, roots exposed. Spread

crown. Splayed branches. All of it open,
its large, heart-shaped leaves following the sun

all day, turning almost imperceptibly.
It’s June, and the tree has burst into improbable

blossom. Consider its situation.
Think again.

And watch it throw its white froth, white fire
over the water.

There is no flower like this. Wild bells
tremble, high in the breeze, their pale scent impossible

to cultivate, or even, held singly, to discern.
That’s why it does this. Just once, each year: burn

everything. Pull and drink, sun and river, and flare
hard with its one thrust of beauty. Here,

it says, and it hopes it’s enough. Sweet bee,
find me.

The insides of the blossoms are flecked with blood.
On the island, the doe staggers up through the mud.


Amanda Williamsen

forthcoming in Valparaiso Poetry Review