THE YEW TREE

I stood behind a yew tree, you didn’t see me.

You stared into his eyes as vows were chanted, hanging in the air like delicate spiderwebs. You chose the life that required my absence. I was the ghost.

I said my own vows.

I said that I mourn you, and I mourn for you. I mourn for all the things you never did.

You wanted so much, how could you have gotten it all? You held the world and all its hopes, Cupped in your small hands. You tried to keep your dreams safe,

yet never realised they were simply hidden away.

I tried to help you.

There were so many small pieces of you, broken off and scattered around.

Pieces that you saw fall, that you walked on from, sacrificing them to the all-consuming whole.

I followed, and picked them up after you. When I held them in my hands, they cut me, but I never let them go. In case you turned around and wanted them back.

The yew berries were a sharp red, they stained my tongue. The seed slipped down your throat.

I hope you chose what you wanted.

Your eyes said different.

They searched the crowd as if I might answer. But the earth had closed around your ankles. The bridegroom, Death, wrapped you in his embrace, like the yew tree slowly grows and stays.

You disappeared into his arms and left me rooted behind.

Written by Tara Sikand