Uprooted

When I was born, my parents planted a birch tree
in our back garden. I could not see it
from my room at the front of the house.

The room in which I read my Winnetou,
in which I touched a breast
for the first time.
The room I painted ocher,
and decorated with beer coasters.

The birch is gone now, and
I have lost my right to the room.