Katherine Gibbel

Send Nudes


My tree was the selfie stick, 
she became my wife. She bore

the everlasting honor of her foliage. 
Some evergreen wish: its violent hinge 

upon my desires. We were laurels 
of Parnassus. We were sports colleagues

and so of course we managed our intimacy 
with chalked-up hands. The locker room’s

its own kind of windthrown forest. In the screen 
my own lecherous reflection ogled me back:

the shocking fixity of my face. A river god 
like most other jackasses. How boughlike 

our arms flagged against the bark.


Send Nudes


I want to talk about the nakedness 
of trees. About seasonal decisions

not the moral of the story: if 
you marry you will turn into an oak

or a linden. Gander the town 
before it floods. For the picture

I posed as the whole myrtle alley 
purpling the history of the bois.

I’m the swan in the lake. I’m a Morisot 
painting. That faux fir feeling.

Knowing a thing won’t allow us 
to prevent it. I wanted just one pic

to outlast my memory of myself 
getting to know the grass.

When I gave up I was still 
a tree. And so were you.


katherine gibbel underblong.jpg

Katherine Gibbel is from Brooklyn, New York. Her work has been published in or is forthcoming from AutostraddleBat City ReviewThe Bennington ReviewPrelude, and elsewhere. She has received fellowships from the Vermont Studio Center and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, where she’s finishing her MFA in poetry. Find her on Instagram playing silly word games @thingsranked.