J e n n i f e r M a r t e l l i
The wet snow split the Japanese cherry tree in half
and that broken half landed on my car in the driveway.
Later, the town’s tree guy came with a chainsaw
and sawed that poor half tree into bits, with its innards all splayed and white.
We both smoked a cigarette from my pack.
Then he hoisted his chain and chainsaw and told me not to hope for blooms in spring.
He didn’t have to tell me that he’d fathered only girls, though he did.
I knew before he spoke of his plight.
You know how? I wanted him so bad,
I wanted him so bad to like me.