The breeze sits in your palm.
the sun is a whimpering haze
of orange and white.
It has been a while since we
have been to church.
We twine our hands together,
Perched like birds on a row of knees.
the crooked pews, aquamarine stained glass windows
the empty space swirling around our panting bodies
in great whorls,
father david spewing forth the gospel, we speak in unison
thanks be to god in the highest, have peace to his people on earth.
Beforehand, we had a family lunch
in the fast food court of the local mall
my father had his name tag, his hat,
his managerial shirt and company-approved trousers,
and the same plate of food he has
consumed for eleven years,
we chew methodically,
enjoy the four-part silence,
glance shiftily at intervals,
let the words hang,
never leap,
off our tongues.
My father is a brave man, defeat is in his posture,
but never his spirit,
he has spent years of his life
in fast food courts, barely daring
to move an inch
for our sake
now he has shrunk into himself,
a man for all men. He sits, patiently.
listen, listen to me,
what I do,
I do for my family,
to let his last sigh be one of relief,
to salvage my mother and father's
hidden grief, to hold it
close to my heart, and let them know that
I understand.
We stop by a cherry orchard,
little Knopp's farm where every item
is home-made.
I strain the very tip of my fingers
to reach that dark purple cluster
of cherries that are warmed by the sun,
and taste like the earth,
it is a hawk and tumbleweed sort of a day.
my brother drapes the weight of his body
over the tree branches, my mother
is on tiptoe on ***** buckets to rip the berries
from the stem,
I watch them both and bristle, struck
by their loveliness.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 1:34 AM UTC
The breeze sits in your palm.
the sun is a whimpering haze
of orange and white.
It has been a while since we
have been to church.
We twine our hands together,
Perched like birds on a row of knees.
the crooked pews, aquamarine stained glass windows
the empty space swirling around our panting bodies
in great whorls,
father david spewing forth the gospel, we speak in unison
thanks be to god in the highest, have peace to his people on earth.
Beforehand, we had a family lunch
in the fast food court of the local mall
my father had his name tag, his hat,
his managerial shirt and company-approved trousers,
and the same plate of food he has
consumed for eleven years,
we chew methodically,
enjoy the four-part silence,
glance shiftily at intervals,
let the words hang,
never leap,
off our tongues.
My father is a brave man, defeat is in his posture,
but never his spirit,
he has spent years of his life
in fast food courts, barely daring
to move an inch
for our sake
now he has shrunk into himself,
a man for all men. He sits, patiently.
listen, listen to me,
what I do,
I do for my family,
to let his last sigh be one of relief,
to salvage my mother and father's
hidden grief, to hold it
close to my heart, and let them know that
I understand.
We stop by a cherry orchard,
little Knopp's farm where every item
is home-made.
I strain the very tip of my fingers
to reach that dark purple cluster
of cherries that are warmed by the sun,
and taste like the earth,
it is a hawk and tumbleweed sort of a day.
my brother drapes the weight of his body
over the tree branches, my mother
is on tiptoe on ***** buckets to rip the berries
from the stem,
I watch them both and bristle, struck
by their loveliness.
