White to the Waist
That line of trees beside apartments
marches neatly east and west,
painted in place to prevent
deviant happenings.
The trees of childhood
wore those same pale leggings
against insect bites, I always believed.
Those unravished barks
were rough as we hugged them,
foreheads bowed, eyes closed,
the count to ten fraught with
the next moment when we
must run, scamper, become
free of our last failure to escape.
Touching base first seems
to offer salvation, so I have
my trees sprayed, cover the pond
to protect the goldfish. Someone
must still believe neat white makes pure.
Tom Sawyer was tricky with whitewash,
and I was once coated over in Mexico.
They called me La Fantasma de Monterrey.
I knew, though, no matter how pale
I looked, I was still sun-burnished
beneath and much compromised.
Today, I think, we ask for stronger medicine.
I take my dose and wait for something,
or someone, to call me cured.