I never made it to Torreón

or saw their faces in the valley.

When I took my cello

to Hillsboro, Missouri, and sung

for Hector, he wept, and I stopped needing

forgiveness. When he passed, 

I put his bolo tie on and never took it off. 

Can I go back to his snail collection 

in the old house to look for clues?

No, the shells were scattered

in the forest (as if that were proper

and not tragic). It is too hard

in this body that expresses itself

through disaster. I want to know why

and, first, why the musclewood tree

is like that? Its catkin flowers 

revealing its birch origin.

Something is stronger than me –

the ordinary rocks we collected, 

our slow walks to nowhere,

the brawny tree bent over our faces.

Look, I couldn’t play 

the cello forever. One day I laid 

it down and let it all rest. 

I asked him to tell me the story 

of the tarantula migration

in Francisco Villa. The future

spun out – profuse with longing,

content to suffer. 

Sloane Scott (she/they) is a Missouri poet studying forestry. Their work has been featured in Hooligan Magazine, trampset, and elsewhere.