Portrait of Hindman Settlement School as a Bigleaf Magnolia

Megan Hutchinson

The leaves of the magnolia tree are broad enough
          to hide my face, to wear like a mask–a smooth, green visage–
so that maybe, if only for an afternoon, I can be like it, that tired mother
          huddling over a tiny log cabin that has seen so much.
After so many years, so many moons pulling the tongue
          of the Troublesome to lick its part of that winding course from mountains
to sea, surely this place courses in the tree’s roots, in the stitchwork
          of the veins, spidery and intricate as antique lace.
Looking closely, I can’t help noticing how this handiwork mirrors my own–
          the quivering threads that hold me together hold it, too–
this leaf, this tree, this history.
          If I wear this earthen mask long enough, maybe
our threads will twine. Maybe
          I, too, will taste the sweat of so many wanderers,
the metallic bite of a corroding locket buried beneath
          the dirt, the savory steam of a long-since-eaten tomato
pie cooling on the windowsill.
                          Maybe.