2/4/17

Poem | Sumana Roy

Tree Porn



Porn doesn’t demand merit.
But so don’t many things, including birth.
Sitting under this tree, this collector, this granary,
your lust grows like an alien muscle.
You think of abandonment, of your asthma,
of the indifference of nostrils to porn,
of mouth to mouth.
Ah, that is why there is no tree porn.

Thoughts move like inventions, like lies:
Pornography is so provincial, it’s like a tendril,
soft, looking for support, forever foreign.
For porn subverts all kinds of self reliance –
you are dependent on the actions of others,
like a gardener’s watering can or rain.

You think of migratory birds and their cycles of blind return –
how those invisible paths are unwound like bandage every winter.
In that thought is the hint of arousal, until you return to the tree.
‘Tree porn is so vegan.’ You prepare the line like a meal.

Bare trees aren’t nudes. Porn demands such invisible note taking.
It needs fortitude, it needs movement. It needs inflation.
Where are these in a tree? Importance is waterproof. And so is pornography.
It rises and settles, like clean air, losing everything, even its aged anarchy.
There’s no background music, no grunt or groan.
Only wind, moving like a letter, it crumples and teases.
The tree’s indifferent to hypnotism,
it doesn’t care that the end is always about turning into a boat,
to reach ashore, to dress and undress, without manners.

Only humans need porn, this excess, this unnecessary.
The tree doesn’t need mystery, becoming log is pornography.

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