Relationship Poem

I got a flat tire once while riding along the Lake Erie coastline. There was no spare in the trunk, and I had nowhere to be so I walked over to a bench, gave the last of my turkey sandwich to some seagulls, thought about going for a swim. I was scared of algae blooms, but not scared enough, figured I’d go waist deep to avoid swallowing any little eukaryotes who might want me dead. The water was cold against my legs. I welcomed its thirst for me, the same way I thirsted for it. Mutualism? I don’t quite know. I didn’t listen hard enough in the seventh grade. I remember something about coyotes and badgers, vultures and capybaras. The vultures pulled ticks from the capybaras’ skin, drawn to a taste of easy blood. I remember the acacia tree, how it grew to have veins through its trunk and branches, tunnels and homes to accommodate ants. The grateful ants, in return, defended the tree. I wonder if I’ve been an ant, or an acacia in this life. I’ll ask the tow truck driver when he arrives. I’ll ask him if I’m good enough, if there is a place he can show me where there are birds looking for roommates, where I might be able to build a nest.

Caleb Edmondson‘s words can be found in Strange Horizons, Bending Genres, and Bullshit Lit! among others. He is an MFA candidate at Bowling Green State University, where he works as an associate editor at the Mid-American Review.