When you cry, your face reminds me of a rain-tinged tree trunk. You’re

no longer a painted totem pole of bright red lipstick, blue eyeshadow,

and pencilled eyebrows--now you’re paint running down as thunder bursts

and lightning punches the ground beneath your feet.

Then you’re knocked down.

You’re a tree struck in the dull undergrowth of greens and browns

as rain pummels you into the ground. I imagine the whistling wind is your screech of terror

when you realize what you’ve done and what you’ll become. When you cry,

it’s as if I’m a tree, too, but trees are really dominos falling on each other. When you cry,

we think our colors are about to collapse into the black of the forest floor--even if

the forest floor is only the dark purple of my carpet and your face is only pressed into your pillow.