ALL TREES ARE OAK TREES EXCEPT FOR PINE TREES by Ali Royals

ALL TREES ARE OAK TREES EXCEPT FOR PINE TREES

You swore. You could not be argued with. Your conviction was a kind of city,
rising from the concrete. I loved when we talked like that. The wanting to
believe, or just the wanting. You said self-destruction is the American
dream—bigger than guns, bigger than cigarettes. You said smaller gods are
easier to believe in. On account of their size, they’re more willing to consider
your prayers. You walked all night to find one once. You didn’t. Then, did. You
owned that little world. I watered the sidewalks, like love does, like dreams do.
The looks on our faces. The feeling of teeth. The horses and the radio running,
running. That was ages ago and fewer oceans between us. Rivers, really, the
type with tunnels underneath. I know my way around them. Our bodies are
municipal airports for love. You said we’re the only ones who know that. You
swam for it from shore. You said we could be happy here. And when I tore that
city down, I thought I was. But what if I’m a palm tree? What if I’m a willow?

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