We found a tree with a hollow cavity and climbed its branches to reach our hands inside. From the tree’s belly, there was a touch like fingertips against our own. We took turns feeling this touch, and when we pulled away, we felt different. Older. We came back for weeks to let the tree age us. Its touch moved beyond our fingers, up our hands and arms, and left our skin wrinkled. The hole widened with each visit, and we let ourselves fall deeper in, always emerging changed; wiser and more brittle. When the tree began to pull us into its body, we didn’t resist. We climbed the branches, one-by-one, up to the hole, that was now a hungry mouth, and we gave ourselves to it. We filled the tree. We searched its bark for sensation. Inside was an emptiness like longing. Above us, the hole grew smaller, until it was like a faraway moon. We stretched our arms towards the hole’s dim light in worship. We prayed for an eclipse. We waited to feel something.
Lena Kinder has an MA in creative writing from the University of Southern Mississippi and is pursuing an MFA in creative writing at Hollins University. Her works can be found in or forthcoming from Wigleaf, Salt Hill, Pinch, Flash Frog, and more. She is the editor-in-chief of Folklore Review.