I don't know what part of this story is a woman.

Myself, or the bottlebrush tree, or my childhood haunt bristling with bright Land Cruisers.

It’s been so long since I sat at the feet of a bottlebrush tree.

This one has twisted arms, fists balled into her hips, defeated. And still a bird and a bird and a bird comb her balmy hair, tug each red flower.

This is my first week in the after. I cannot drink enough water. My hands are numb and open. The songbirds are drunk on the bottlebrush. A woodpec…