As she sleeps, out of her mouth grows an evergreen. She wakes with needles on her chest, roots deep in her throat. Pollen stains her black hair. She now speaks only the language of native thrushes. She’s unable to scream. Her jaw aches. Her neck aches. She grips the tree, stumbles outside. An owl lands on her branches, watches her drop to her knees. How did it find me, she thinks. The forest creeps forward. The swallows are flying home. Pinecones at her hips. When her jaw splits open, still she sings.
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