Michaela Garrahan

Sweet Willow

Don't let your hands

Grow into trees;

I need your sickness,

I need your tissue,

And I need to weep into your hands, sweet willow.

I am mad at opportunity,

For I am no longer in debt--

Yet the only thing in my name,

Are the words I've written,

And have vowed not to say.

Don't let your hands 

Grow into trees;

I need your chest,

I need your needs.

Brooms are made of wood,

And I cannot have another hold me like I'm dirty.

Willow,

I had all the time in the world,

And I decided not to breathe--

My ribs are black,

Yet my hands and throat are clean.

Don't let your hand

Grow into trees;

I need your sobriety,

I need your knees,

For wood makes bar stools,

And drunk men bleed.

I take shots of pity,

I'm too proud of living--

And it's not even three,

Yet I'm already dizzy.

Don't let your hands

Grow into trees;

I need your youth

And I need your noose,

So I, too, can turn heads.

You've broken too many necks;

With your reign, I could do a better job--

I could take your breath,

And make it psalms.

Don't let your hands 

Grow into trees,

I need your eyes,

I need to be your feast.

Clay mourns from the dirt, below,

Do not sob, willow,

I need your dirt,

Not your hands to grow.

And if I could, 

I would make urns of your hands

And pay myself a round of applause,

For I am poor,

And need the knowledge of the stars.

Don't let your hands

Grow into trees--

For you'll be too gorgeous

And vain,

To ever breathe for me.

Michaela Garrahan '26 is a passionate writer at East. She plays football, participates in a variety of clubs, and works hard in school. Later this year, she will be self-publishing her debut poetry collection, Everything We Fail to Say.