Sara Borjas
White Birches
Monson, Maine
These must be
what the old white
poets were
raving about
—how they
make so
much room
for themselves.
If you can’t
tell if I am
angry, exactly,
I am.
I can
and cannot
write about
trees right now.
I can
and cannot
write about
white terror,
or make a choice.
That’s what
you all do
not understand.
These white
birches
have some
audacity, existing.
If I just
stood there,
accepting,
I could be
like them.
But I could
never again
call myself
human.