By Jonathan May

During break in school, all of us
from grade four cluttered
around the monkey-gland
tree—its gnarled limbs
stretched out flowerless,
our playground arms.
Masugu
brought a knife
one time and cut deep
into the heart, before
it branched. Sap, brown
and sticky, covered our hands
as if it might never be washed away.

Copyright May 2015