Isabelle Hidalgo


we planted a sapling along the mid-Atlantic ridge. 

you said the air would be enough. 

i said the ocean would help it grow. 

the roots tangled in the fault lines, 

slender trunk and sparse branches stretched out

like they were waiting for us.

 

i sent overexposed and blurry photos to friends. 

the light caught it just so, 

green enough to look alive. 

you laughed. it wasn’t unkind. 

it was sharp and sudden, 

like the thunder still miles out. 

only broken trees, you said, 

need hands to hold them up.

 

months later, the storm came. 

you peeled bark down with your hands,

leaves crunched under boots now in my storage unit.

twigs snapped following your trail 

as you descended into the underground

 

i stayed, 

built stilts to keep it upright, 

pouring stolen light and borrowed water 

into the cracks, 

traced its shadow on the ridge like a map. 

the seasons cycled through once before you sailed back

with soil under your nails. 

from other shores

 

your hands smelled of rain 

felt calloused from typhoons i couldn’t name. 

i washed them clean. 

that’s where all the water went— 

into the salt, into the soil that wasn’t soil,

just dirt.

i wonder now what kind of tree it was.

i dreamed of willows— 

roots deep enough to anchor, 

limbs soft enough to bend in harsh winds.

 

you said it bore conkers, 

like the horse chestnuts you climbed as a boy, 

solid and steady, 

a tree meant to be left behind.

 

maybe it was neither. 

maybe it was only bark, 

a shell we pressed against, 

listening for an echo. 

does it still stand? 

i don’t go to the shore anymore.

 

you said you’d visit weekly, 

but tides pulled you somewhere else.

no one’s seen the branches in months.

 

when the ocean dries and they need fire 

and they find its hollow trunk

 

will they ask why it burns so cold?