the trees all planted in the same month after the same fire
each thick around
as a man's wrist

meticulously spaced grids cutting the sunshine

into panels into planks
and crossbeams of light

an incandescent architecture that is the home that was promised you

the promise of your new
purified body

your body rendered glasslike by fire now open to the light

slicing through you
through the glass

bones of your hands as you lift the light free of its verticals

carry it blazing
through your irradiated life


About this poem
"This poem comes from a series-in-progress titled 'Blackacre.' In Anglo-American law, 'Blackacre' is a standard placeholder term used to denote a hypothetical estate or piece of property, much as the term 'John Doe' would be used to indicate a hypothetical or anonymous individual. For example, in a legal hypothetical, one might say that John Doe wishes to bequeath his property Blackacre to his sister Jane Roe. Similarly, one can designate other hypothetical properties Whiteacre, Greenacre, Brownacre, etc."
-Monica Youn

About Monica Youn
Monica Youn is the author of "Ignatz" (Four Way Books, 2010). She teaches at Princeton University and lives in Manhattan.

***
The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.


(c) 2015 Monica Youn. Originally published by the Academy of American Poets, www.poets.org. Distributed by King Features Syndicate