I See Tree People 

When my grandma couldn’t stand anymore, 

she used to arm-dance. 

When I look at the trees outside 

my fourth floor spring window 

I see them –  

her arms, I mean. 

The branches are 

gnarl-boned, 

flick-wristed, 

song-stretched. 

They sway  

in S’s 

to her 

idiosynchronicity. 

The wind  

harmonicas, 

undu-lala-lates. 

Once, walking to the Co-op 

during lockdown, 

I saw a family tree 

(ha ha psychosis). 

Victorians perched atop, 

flowcharted, 

peering under the brim of their noses, 

music-less. 

My grandma never looked at me 

like that. 

Even when she couldn’t arm-dance anymore, 

her eyes jived 

with kindness. 

Now I know we are the tree. 

Let’s eye-dance.