The sycamores, with their spalled trunks,
are splotchy white, like a case
of creeping psoriasis, scales of skin
on overdrive. When I was young,
the adults never spoke openly of disease,
only in whispers.
In my neighborhood, whole blocks
are lined with sycamore. Sycamores crowd
the sidewalks, arch roadways,
pull up the concrete with their roots.
Always the city’s tallest trees.
The base of their trunks
gets wrapped in yellowed paper
and shiny bits of trash. Why does age
make their trunks abrade?
The bark cracks and splinters,
giving up secrets. So white
in spots, it almost glows.
This poem was published in 2023 by Humanities DC in a series of note cards.
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Kim Roberts will release two new books in 2025: Q&A for the End of the World, a collaboration with Michael Gushue (WordTech Editions), her seventh book of poems; and Buried Stories: Walking Tours of Washington, DC-Area Cemeteries (Rivanna Books), her second guidebook. She has edited two anthologies of poems by Washington, DC authors, and co-curates DC Pride Poem-a-Day each June. http://www.kimroberts.org
