The Judas Tree
Erica Wright
What kind of betrayal blossoms,
scatters its pink across the road?
The only kind I’ve known burns
like grease from a frying pan,
the only pink the skin left behind.
Today I plant rows of beans
in a sun so hot I get a little sick.
Then the sheriff ’s helicopter
passes overhead. Another
escaped convict hunted
like a wolf in a place
where wolves can be hunted.
I’m thinking about the friend
I never call back, her voice
on the message stranger
with each passing year.
Is this betrayal, too?
Forgetting who we once were?
It’s not as hot under the trees.
I can wait here until I’m found.