They wanted to tear down the tulip tree, our neighbors, last year. It throws a / shadow over their vegetable patch, the only tree in our backyard. We said no. / Now they’ve hired someone to chainsaw an arm—the crux on our side of / the fence—and my wife, in tousled hair and morning sweat, marches to stop the / carnage, mid-limb. It reminds her of her childhood home, a shady place to hide. / She recites her litany of no, returns. Minutes later, the neighbors emerge. The / worker points to our unblinded window. I want to say, it’s not me, slide out of / view behind a wall of cupboards, ominous breakfast table, steam of tea, our two / young daughters now alone. I want no trouble. Must I fight for my wife’s desire / for yellow blooms when my neighbors’ tomatoes will stunt and blight in shade? / Always the same story: two people, one tree, not enough land or light or love. / Like the baby brought to Solomon, someone must give. Dear neighbor, it’s not / me. Bloom-shadowed, light-deprived, they lower the chainsaw again.