Evensong

the rainbow eucalypts are sighing. he keeps hearing
their bark peeling, the fire-scarred cambium beneath.
bright pink, neon green, in parts their flesh has aged
to carmine. he was born in a country of such trees,
their silhouettes. born to wattle, bottlebrush, helio-
tropic stars of spider flower, they grew everywhere,

                                                                   he went away.

later at the dinner party he and his father step out
to stand before the waves. it’s too dark to see them,
so they listen. waves have two shapes. first as water,
then sound. they’re so brief. eternity has many shapes,
and all the rest will differ from tonight’s, his father,
their birthplace, the rhythm of the crashing shoreline

                                                                    buffering the cracking bark

Benjamin Bartu is a poet & disability studies researcher. He is the author of the chapbook Myriad Reflector (2023), finalist for the Poetry Online Chapbook Contest. His poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net, and has appeared or is forthcoming in The Journal, Sonora Review, Bellingham Review, HAD, nat.brut, Guesthouse, & elsewhere. He lives in Oakland.