I am not sure what was so lovely
About sitting in the backseat
Of my mother's station wagon,
Driving here to there
To buy a shirt and pants for school
Or replenish my mother's stock
Of toiletries and pantyhose.
I hated the way my mother drove:
Fast, slow, speed up, hit the brake,
Until the solid lunch she'd fed us
Became a churning boil
In my early-adolescent stomach.
But sometimes vision could break that spell
And arrest notice through the dappled sunlight,
Light and dark,
Playing with my eyesight
Through the trees above me
A child-like wonder, groaning,
Rising up from my chest
And I could swallow the Summer whole
Like a juicy Georgia peach,
The sweetness flowing from my lips
On my hands, down my arms
In a baptism of the season's calling.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
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