Sugaring season

Bury me under a sugar maple,
my father said,
and let its fiery autumn crown
be my gravestone.
Put my body to work,
nourishing the soil as it has held me,
feeding my maggot undertakers,
returning me,
atom by atom,
to the stars.
And at the spring thaw,
when the sap starts to flow
I will be in each trickle,
each hopeful drip,
announcing my arrival with loud
and constant plink plinks,
the tree adorned with a pail
to collect each drop,
a slow and steady snivel
and occasional sob,
the forest sharing your grief each year.
Boil the sorrow and heartbreak
until it is thick and golden,
and let my grandchildren’s mouths
become sticky sweet
with its syrup.

If that isn’t resurrection,
I don’t know what is.

Caleb Wolfson-Seeley is a baker and father residing in Williamstown, Massachusetts. He was a 2022 finalist for the Adina Talve-Goodman Fellowship for early-career writers of fiction whose work speaks to issues and experiences related to inhabiting bodies of difference.

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