Tara Johannessen

I am

As soon as he got there, he promptly placed his
briefcase on a rock. He was surrounded by a pack of white
Birch. "Oh, these tender tender beginnings" he said to
himself as he unbuckled his black faux leather belt."Ohh,
the briny start of infinite risk," he said in a whisper now. He
proceeded to then take off his pointy black business shoes,
his navy blue socks, his slacks, his white boxers with the
black umbrellas all over, his off-white Irish knit sweater
and finally his white ribbed muscle-T. He threw those
clothes with his graying fifty year old arm with vim. The
wind raced passed his goose-pimpled skin. He was naked,
completely naked. He looked down at his root-his most
very private and almost favorite anatomy. And it was then
he knew, beyond any doubt, one of his honorable ancestors
had an affair with a plant. "I am" he said louder than a
whisper as his root began to furrow into the ground.
"I AM" he said even louder as he looked at the birches and
they just stood there still. "I Am" he said over and over.
"I Am!".


Let me,

Let me
Be the slave
To virtue.

The follower
Of flowers
Yellow and now.

For I am
The old glutton
Gray and almost
Begone.

And it's never
Too late
To love.

Remember?

It's the going
which knows
like snow
on our way
or a word's
curve
into
beyond.


About the Author

Born in Kingston in NY. Raised on a goat farm. BA from Bard. Currently working as Nurse's Assistant taking care of the elderly and the severely disabled. Published in anthology called Sleep: bedtime reading by Roger Gorman and Robert Peacock. Published by Rizzoli Internationale.

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